Taking Hollywood

by Shari King

  ‘You know it, man. Look, don’t hang around here. I’ll call you when I’m ready to head home.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘It’s Saturday night. Can’t have you missing the game. You’ll get a few hands in if you head home now.’

  Leandro’s Saturday-night poker with his bowling buddies was a regular fixture back in his neighbourhood of condos at the foot of the Hills.

  Zander almost wished he could go with him and swerve the party. The industry stuff wasn’t his thing. But tonight was different. Tonight was for Wes Lomax, and he wouldn’t miss it for anything.

  Shit, he needed a drink. A large one. Deep breath. Smile. Sobriety. Go.

  The flashbulbs went crazy when he stepped onto the red carpet and the predominately female crowd that had formed around the door instantly went from silent to scream.

  Zander gave them his trademark grin: square jaw, well- trimmed stubble, perfect white teeth. One hand in his impeccably cut Dolce & Gabbana suit trousers: confident, sexy, with just a hint of bashful. Zander Leith was on.

  At the door, a runner, a 20-something 120-pound girl who wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Vegas stage with the Pussycat Dolls, held a clipboard and mike in one hand and stretched out her other hand towards him.

  ‘Hi, Mr Leith. I’m Cindy. Let me show you through. Reception drinks are on the International Terrace, and then you’re on Mr Lomax’s table for dinner in the ballroom.’

  ‘Thanks, Cindy. I’m all yours.’

  Cindy rewarded the charm with a flush and a coy smile that made it clear she wasn’t averse to that idea.

  ‘And I’m all yours,’ she sparred, enjoying the flirtation.

  Through on the International Terrace, waiters greeted him with trays of champagne and cranberry juice. He chose the latter, knowing that if he took just one sip of alcohol, it would be on Twitter within seconds. Every member of staff in Hollywood was an aspiring actor, singer, writer, director and they’d do anything to pay the bills, get attention or die trying. To them, it would be a tip-off in exchange for cash or a tweet that made them look like a big-shot in their home town: ‘@imthenextpacino With Zander Leith and he’s on the booze man #PARTEEEEEEEEBABEEE’.

  To Zander, it would be a shit-storm of publicity that would take days to cancel out with denials and staged shots of him surfing or hanging out at a juice bar. It was all such bullshit, but it was a small price to pay for this life. At least, that’s what he told himself when he was sober. In rare moments of drunken clarity, he wasn’t so sure.

  Everyone who was anyone was here. Wes Lomax’s influence and status demanded it. And just for tonight, they’d all pretend that at least three-quarters of the people in the room weren’t so twisted with jealousy they’d strangle Lomax in a second for a fraction of what he had.

  Shit, he needed a drink.

  Zander worked the room. A kiss for Wes’s latest girlfriend, an up-and-coming Chinese action star who was famously double-jointed. He shook hands with producers. Nodded to directors. Schmoozed the money guys. Everyone got acknowledged and validated, their egos suitably stroked, while he made sure they could all see that the whole rehab thing was a blip and the movie star was back.

  Spotting a few allies, he worked his way over to a group in the corner. Don Michael Domas, star of Call Me, the sitcom that had inherited the Friends audience and managed to hold it for the last decade. Lee Vandan, male model, who earned half the rate of the female supermodels but let it pile up in the bank while he lived in a beach shack near Zuma and spent every day on the waves. Josh Wilson, writer, who’d polished the scripts of half the best action movies of the last year and didn’t care that he didn’t get billing, so his name was barely known outside the hallowed ring fence of Hollywood. All that mattered was that it was on the speed dial of the money guys on the inside.

  The three of them cheered and shook hands when Zander rolled up. Always a loner, these were the guys he considered the closest thing to friends. They’d hang out at the beach. Catch a beer. Watch a game. They didn’t share their problems or worries, but that worked out just fine for them – that’s what $500-an-hour therapists were for.

  An old J. Arthur Rank-style gong summoned them through for dinner. Nice touch.

  More handshaking as Zander worked his way to the table at the front and centre of the room. Wes was already there and greeted him with open arms.

  ‘You look great, son, really great.’

  ‘Thanks, Wes. Feeling good, man.’

  Shit, he needed a drink.

  The meal passed in a flurry of camaraderie and bonhomie, the perfect facade of appreciation for a man who’d survived forty years in the most cut-throat industry on earth. Silent clips of his movies ran on a loop against the white wall behind the stage. For Zander, it was like watching a reel of his life. It was an unusual situation, an actor who worked almost exclusively for one studio, but it had been the perfect arrangement for them and Zander had never had any wish to diversify. Wes understood him. Loved him, even. Although, he was under no illusions – even now, Wes would fire his ass if he damaged the bottom line.

  When the last of the dessert dishes were removed from the tables, the lights dimmed slightly and the event manager gave Zander a prearranged nod.

  As he stood up from the table and made his way towards the stage, the perfectly calibrated sound system gave a burst of the theme tune for the Dunhill movies. The crowd applauded as they all turned to watch the action.

  Zander reached the podium, the music faded, and he instinctively took charge of the crowd.

  Shit, he really needed a drink.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for being here tonight to honour a man who is one of the greatest producers we have ever known, one of the greatest visionaries our industry has ever had, one of the greatest inspirations to a generation of film-makers.’

  The mandatory applause was swift and rapturous. There were many more Wes Lomax plaudits that a compère less discreet than Zander could have added. One of the greatest shaggers who ever lived. One of the most ruthless bastards to anyone who ever crossed him. One of the biggest egos that ever swaggered to his place on the Walk of Fame.

  But it was Zander who was speaking. So he simply ended with ‘A man who is, for me, the greatest friend. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Wes Lomax.’

  Three hours with a Pilates instructor and a quick fuck in the limo on the way there had given Wes the flexibility and energy to bound up the stairs like a man half his age. The two men embraced before Zander returned to his seat, the guests now on their feet giving a standing ovation to Lomax the Conqueror.

  Wes thanked the thousand-strong audience, then launched into a monologue that recounted his career in humble yet glorious terms. His speechwriter had done a stellar job after being given the brief: ‘I want them to know how fucking brilliant I am without coming off as an asshole.’

  As it rolled on and on, Zander tried not to be distracted by the bottle of red wine that sat on the table in front of him. Just one glass. Just one.

  ‘And that brings me to perhaps the most wonderful movies I have ever produced, the Dunhill series.’

  More applause.

  ‘And an actor I want to make special mention of here tonight, Zander Leith.’

  Suddenly Wes trumped the 1964 Rioja as Zander knew instinctively what was happening. To the outside world, Wes was thanking an actor for a couple of decades of loyal service. The truth was a little more pragmatic. Wes was protecting his investment. He was letting the world know that Zander was still on top. Making sure they all knew that the tarnish of his spell in rehab had been repolished up to a perfect shine that would carry the Dunhill franchise on for many more years.

  Zander watched Wes push his pre-prepared script to one side and switch to improvisation.

  ‘When I met Zander back in 1990, I was of course only sixteen . . .’

  The glitterati laughed on cue.

  ‘But even then I knew this guy was something special.
The story of how we met has been told a thousand times, but hey . . . indulge me.’

  Murmurs of encouragement reached the stage.

  ‘I was golfing in Scotland – man, it rains over there – and I found a script.’

  Zander’s throat suddenly felt like sandpaper as the memories collided with the desperate need for . . . Shit, he really needed a drink.

  It was a struggle to maintain a relaxed demeanour and casual smile when all he really wanted to do was go. Taking the bottle with him.

  ‘A really special script.’ Wes was on a roll now.

  Zander was sliding into hell. He was back there. Back then.

  Davie slid into the booth of the cafe. Opposite Zander, Mirren budged over to give him room.

  ‘Listen, Mirren, I need that stuff you wrote.’

  Mirren’s guard went up instantly. Face flushed. Fear obvious.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Look, just give me it, OK? I promise it’s cool.’

  ‘Have you gone to the police?’

  Davie was horrified. ‘Don’t be so fucking daft. OK, look, there’s this guy staying in the hotel. A movie guy. I want to give it to him.’

  The noise of Zander slamming the table made everyone turn to look at the three slightly dishevelled teenagers, two of whom had been sat there all morning nursing two cans of Coke – an unusual sight in St Andrews, a city of students who unpacked their clothes, books and Daddy’s trust fund when they arrived.

  ‘Fuck off, Davie. Don’t be so stupid. I told you, you should have burned that stuff,’ Zander hissed to Mirren.

  ‘I was going to, but I . . . I . . .’

  ‘Zander, for Christ’s sake, shut it. Leave her alone. Look, mate, I know you don’t want to hear this, but we’re fucked. What are we gonna do? Stay here forever? We have no money, nowhere to go, and I dunno about you, but I’m fucking sick of living like this.’

  Zander couldn’t argue with the last point. They’d managed to find casual jobs – Zander and Mirren in bars and Davie in the kitchen of the St Andrews Grand, the most prestigious hotel on the east coast. But even three wages combined was barely enough to cover rent on the bedsit they shared, Mirren in the single bed, Zander and Davie in second-hand sleeping bags on the floor. Food was an occasional luxury, and everything else was out of the question.

  ‘No one can see that, Davie. It’s way too risky. What if someone realizes . . . ? What if it gets out? When we get back to the flat, I’m getting rid of it. We’ll find another way.’

  Davie had looked crestfallen as Mirren lifted her eyes from the Coke can and spoke for the first time.

  ‘Zander’s right. I shouldn’t have shoved it in my backpack. Stupid. Forget about it, Davie.’

  Zander had been so furious that he’d missed the look he later realized had been exchanged between them. Mirren was telling Davie where it was. Where to look.

  ‘Aw, fuck youse, then. I need to get back to work.’

  But he hadn’t. Davie’d gone to the bedsit, got the rough, short draft of a story from Mirren’s backpack. Forty thousand words. Not long enough to be a novel, but long enough to tell a story that was horrific to all of them. But Davie knew that to someone else it would be something different. There was an opportunity here. And right now it was the only one they had. Davie had gone back to the hotel, promised a room-service waitress a date if he let her take the next order to the Lomax room, delivered Wes’s blue steaks with a side order of Scottish noir.

  It was a stunt that had been tried in a thousand variations, but this time Davie got lucky. When he wheeled the trolley into the room, Wes shouted for his companion to bring his wallet so he could tip the waiter. Davie had almost lost his train of thought as a girl who looked about seventeen, huge tits and totally naked, strutted out of the bedroom.

  ‘Ten dollars or ten minutes with her?’ Wes had joked, to a furious glare from the girl.

  Later, much later, Davie had told them that Wes had roared with laughter and slapped his own thigh. ‘Come sit here, baby, and I’ll make it all better.’

  Davie was momentarily forgotten as the girl crossed the room and did as she was bid, giving him time to slide the manuscript from under the tablecloth and leave it on the coffee table beside him. Wes never noticed, given that he was already busy sucking the tit of his hostile girlfriend.

  Davie never did get the ten quid. But they got a lot more than that.

  Zander snapped back to the present, caught up with Wes’s abbreviated, edited version of events.

  ‘The minute I read it, I knew it was something special. It took a few days, but when I tracked down the kids behind it, I spotted a young guy who had a shit attitude and nothing to say for himself.’

  Zander automatically bowed in deference as the spellbound audience joined in the joke, the glittering masses completely unaware of just how true it was.

  ‘So let me get this straight,’ Wes had said a few days later, after a call to the number scribbled on the front of the script had summoned them to his room at the Grand. ‘You wrote it, but you three are – what, partners?’

  His tone was playful. Mocking.

  Mirren had nodded and looked at Zander with eyes that begged him to go along with this. Her desperation had been the only thing that had got him there in the first place. He’d resisted. Raged. Tried to punch out that wee bastard Davie. Until Mirren had stopped him.

  ‘Zander, no! Jesus, what’s wrong with you?’ Then calmer, ‘Zander, I know you don’t want to do this. Neither do I. Why would I want to put this out there? But we have nothing else. Davie is right. We have to do it. Please, Zander. For me. Please?’ Now he was standing in front of this American, feeling like he was twelve and trying to suppress the urge to kick the fuck out of the headmaster’s desk.

  ‘OK, so here’s what I think. I’ll go with the whole partnership deal thing. Your writing is something, little lady. How’d you come up with the storyline?’

  Mirren hesitated. ‘Just . . . dark imagination, I s’pose.’

  ‘Well, honey, I might like to buy me some of that.’

  Zander clenched his fists, desperate to deck the patronizing prick.

  ‘And you –’ he turned to Davie, ‘– what you did took some balls. I like that.’

  Davie nodded eagerly, desperate to get to the bit where Wes would say something that would remove them from the misery of their existence.

  ‘But you, boy. You’re part of this deal too,’ he told Zander.

  ‘I’m not. I want nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Would ya listen to this? He wants nothing to do with it,’ Wes roared, turning the knob way past patronizing.

  Davie and Mirren grimaced uncomfortably as Wes waved his cigar around for dramatic effect.

  ‘OK, well, here’s the deal. Acting we can teach. But you are Cal in this script. You’re that kid that fought back. You’re exactly how I imagine him. I can see it.’

  Score one for accuracy, Mr Lomax.

  ‘So the deal is this. You’re in or there’s no deal. End of story.’

  A month later, they were all in Hollywood. Low budget, shot on two cameras, a haunting, harrowing tale of violence that was so authentic it could be replicated on any night in any city across the world. Two and a half years later, they picked up an Oscar for their movie, The Brutal Circle.

  Somewhere along the line, Wes took Zander under his wing. Protected him, developed an influence that sat somewhere between boss and benefactor. It had worked for them.

  At the time, Zander had been grateful because, quite frankly, it was all he had left after his two best friends had sold him out to the only bidder.

  Disloyal bastards.

  ‘We’ve worked together for twenty years now and, Zander, I owe you my thanks.’

  Zander stood, nodded and then raised his hands to applaud the man on the stage. The thousand people around him followed his lead.

  They allowed Wes to sum up his speech and clapped him off the stage. Zander hugged him a
s he passed, then summoned every shred of acting talent he possessed to endure the next hour with gregarious charm. Halfway through, he surreptitiously texted Leandro with instructions to come collect him. As soon as was respectfully allowed, he made the standard Hollywood excuse.

  ‘Gotta go, guys, early call in the morning.’

  It wasn’t a lie. And it made Wes beam with pleasure.

  ‘Glad you’re taking care of yourself, son,’ he told him as he shook his hand.

  It took another half an hour to work his way back out of the room, pressing flesh and air-kissing where expected and auspiciously wise.

  When he made it to the door, he inhaled a lungful of cool Beverly Hills air.

  Shit, he really needed a drink.

  Leandro drew to a halt in front of him and Zander reached for the door, just as a hand tapped his shoulder.

  ‘Hey, leaving so soon?’ Cindy purred.

  ‘Erm, yeah. Early call.’

  Man, she was beautiful. Zander had a sudden urge to lick Jack Daniel’s from every single inch of her body. Slowly. Carefully. With an erection that would take all night to die.

  ‘So, still making the offer that you’re all mine?’

  Her voice was on the same come-on level as dropping her dress to the floor and lying on the bonnet of the car wearing nothing but heels and a smile.

  In a previous life, Zander would have enjoyed the experience. Taken her up on the offer. Every synapse of his brain was now screaming, ‘Go on, hurry up, right now. What the hell are you waiting for?’

  But . . . man, this was excruciating. It was a one-way street that only ended badly. He knew this. She’d be back at his apartment. They’d party. A threesome with Jack Daniel’s and then a few hours later, Hollie would be dragging him into the shower to sober him up and checking he’d used a condom so she didn’t have to flag up a paternity risk to the lawyers.

  What a mess. What a crap-storm of a mess.

  ‘Sorry, honey, but I really do have to go. I wish I didn’t.’ He made it sound like regret, not rejection, then leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. Paps got some shots off, but he wasn’t worried. He didn’t have his tongue down her throat, and anyway, there was no law against kissing a stunning girl.