by Shari King
‘Good to see you, buddy,’ Zander said, shaking his hand and taking the towel. ‘Can you add a Jack Daniel’s on ice to that?’
‘No, he bloody can’t,’ came the reply from the lady sitting just inside, on the white leather sofa closest to the door.
‘I meant an orange juice,’ Zander quick-fired, as he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, laughing when she ignored his ‘Evening, lovely.’
‘Has anyone ever pointed out that you really have issues with impulse control?’
‘Yep, my PA. But I don’t listen to her, as I suspect she’s overly judgemental.’
‘Judgemental, my ass,’ Hollie shut him down. ‘I swear to God you’re going to give me a heart attack.’
‘I’m sorry, Holls. I am.’
‘No you’re fricking not,’ she said, smoothing back the brunette hair that was pulled into a low ponytail. She was channelling the Bond-girl look – black leather trousers, black polo-neck sweater, gold chain round the waist.
‘I am, I swear. So, how many people have I pissed off?’ he asked, tossing his jacket onto a chair and slouching down on the opposite sofa, where young Richard Gere was already waiting with a large glass of chilled juice.
‘Wes isn’t chuffed, but that’s because he’s fairly sure you went on a bender and are at this very moment lying in a pool of your own bodily fluids in a Tijuanan jail.’
‘That was last weekend,’ Zander deadpanned.
‘Axl managed to work without you yesterday and today. I told him that you weren’t there because your doctor instructed you to rest your chaffed inner thighs.’
‘I have chaffed inner thighs?’
‘Yes. It was the harness. Not sure Axl believed me, but the set doc is screaming about failings in health and safety, and dangle times, and . . . urgh, it’s a whole big chaffing mess caused by thighs that are not even fricking chaffed.’
Zander was too much of a gentleman to point out that they probably were now.
‘So. Adrianna Guilloti.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘Deduction. I’ve met her. I’m straight and I’d still screw her all the way to New York and back.’
She took his silence as confirmation and proceeded. ‘You know she’s married . . .’
‘I do now. I didn’t on Tuesday.’
‘. . . to Carlton Farnsworth?’ That caught him off guard.
‘The real-estate guy? But . . . but . . .’
‘I think “Holy shit” is the expression you’re looking for.’
They’d never met, but Zander knew who Carlton Farnsworth was. He had come across him when he was researching a role a few years ago about a Wall Street mogul gone rogue. Farnsworth was a self-made man. Construction. Stocks. Hedge funds. Now wealthy beyond belief. No criminal record. More ruthless than Trump. More intense than Shvo. Shadier than any of the big names. He owned a large percentage of Queens, Brooklyn and several statement properties in New York. There had been many rumours over the years concerning cement boots and dirty money, but nothing that had ever stood up in court.
‘She kept her own name when they married, but they’ve been together forever. They’re, like, a major power couple. Always in the press. Nothing in there set off an alarm in your brain?’
‘I’m not sure the brain was engaged,’ he admitted ruefully. Shit. Carlton Farnsworth. The one time he breaks the ‘no married women’ rule, he does it with Carlton Farnsworth’s wife. A few hours ago, the 3,000 miles between New York and LA seemed way too far. Now, suddenly, it didn’t seem far enough.
‘Hang on,’ Hollie said, staring at him. ‘I just want to capture the exact expression on your face so that when you piss me off, I can conjure this up and gloat.’
Zander laughed and knocked back the orange juice. Fuck it. What’s done was done. Over. A great – what was it Adrianna called it – encounter, no need for a second act. The thought didn’t break his heart, but it sure made the world seem like a less exciting place.
‘So anyway, much as it’s lovely to see you, to what do I owe the pleasure?’ he asked, as they moved over to their chairs and clipped in their seatbelts in response to the announcement that they were about to start taxiing.
Hollie shrugged. ‘I didn’t know where you were, didn’t know if it was gonna get messy, so I thought I’d better come over in case I had to drag you out of a crack den or identify your body,’ she said breezily. ‘So I flew here yesterday – first class, thank you very much . . .’
‘You’re welcome,’ Zander replied.
‘And spent the night in the Plaza – again, thank you . . .’
‘No problem.’
‘And you treated me to a night at the theatre – Jersey Boys – and a new Chanel clutch. Oh, and these pants. You’re really very generous. I don’t think Matt Damon could match it.’
‘I try. You’re worth it.’
The jet picked up speed and they both closed their eyes as the nose of the plane rose, pushing them slightly back into their chairs.
‘So anyway, spill. What was she like? Worth spending the rest of your life without kneecaps?’ Hollie asked, lifting a cup of coffee from the tray that young Richard Gere was now holding in front of her.
No answer.
‘Zander?’
No answer.
‘Zander?’ she repeated. Still nothing.
51.
‘Come Fly With Me’ – Frank Sinatra
Nothing. Just a tiny snuffle of sleep. Hollie rolled her eyes, then checked her watch, making a quick calculation. Six hours until landing. And given the state of Zander’s under-eye luggage, he’d probably be out until touchdown.
‘Anything else I can do for you?’ young Richard Gere asked.
‘N— Erm, actually, what age are you?’
‘Twenty-three,’ he replied, clearly a little puzzled.
Another calculation. Nope, he broke her ten-year rule.
‘Ah, born a year too late. Thanks but I’m fine.’
‘Are you absolutely sure?’ YRG wasn’t giving up that easily. This broad was gorgeous. And it did get boring when there was nothing to do around here. That’s why he preferred the rock stars to the business clients – groupies, liquor and he was frequently invited to join the party. Actors were usually the worst. Completely self-obsessed. One guy he’d seen in a dozen movies once asked if he could have a different air supply from the journalists who were riding up back. Another made a weekly trip to see the daughter that no one knew he had, accompanied by the mistress who sang songs to him while they had sex. And then there was the squeaky-clean actor-turned-politician who insisted the two secretaries who never left his side were Harvard graduates. Perhaps they were. But the minute the jet left the ground, they stripped naked and stayed that way for the whole flight, both of them sporting the kind of body hair that hadn’t been seen since the 1970s. Huge full bushes. Underarm frizz. The three of them would then head for the bedroom, only emerging when the wheels hit the ground.
Before YRG had left his home town, determined to make it as a movie star, he’d reckoned Hollywood had a pretty twisted side. Now he knew just how twisted it was, nothing surprised him. But hey, as long as they were all consenting adults, what was the harm? And if there was a little something in it for him, all the better.
This wasn’t the job he’d aspired to, but until Spielberg came calling, it would do just fine. He gave his sexiest movie-role-audition grin to the woman in the hot black leather pants, but she still didn’t bite. Shame.
Hollie knew exactly what he was thinking and it wasn’t that she wasn’t tempted, but she had a strict ‘no more than ten years younger’ policy. Bloody scruples – no wonder they were the first thing to go when anyone got success. They didn’t half spoil the party.
‘Thanks, but I’m good.’
As soon as he’d gone back through the privacy curtain, Hollie stood up and opened the overhead locker at the front of the fuselage. She’d taken this jet enough times with Zander to know where the supplies w
ere kept. Extracting a blanket, she opened it and spread it across her boss, who now had his head lolling to one side, a tiny droplet of drool crystallizing at the corner of his mouth. If his fans could see him now.
Settling back down, she pulled her laptop out of her bag and got to work on emails, firing automatic responses back to the ones she could answer, prioritizing the ones that she’d need to consult with Zander on. There were no major surprises. His schedule for the next week was there. Invitations to several events. An analysis of fan activity from the administrator of his official fan clubs on Facebook and Twitter. Then there were the usual fishing requests from tabloids and TV entertainment shows. Could Zander comment on the rumour that he was dating Cameron Diaz? Was it true that he visited Hawaii last weekend with Jennifer Lawrence? Did he care to answer the accusations that he was being difficult on the Dunhill set and that there were rising tensions between him and Axl Chang? Did he wish to challenge their source who claimed Mr Leith had pec implants and was planning to have a facelift after shooting concluded? All bollocks, all replied to with a swift and firm ‘Story denied, categorically untrue.’
Not a single whiff of a rumour about New York or Adrianna Guilloti. Thank God. He was sailing closer to the wind than ever with this one. She fancied his chances of surviving a crack den in Compton more than his odds of surviving crossing Carlton Farnsworth. Fool. And yet – she glanced over at him, still sound asleep – he was a lovable fool.
As long as Zander wanted her, she’d never be Matt Damon’s, she thought with a smile. A dozen more emails were filed, answered or categorized before she got to the final one. Sarah McKenzie. The name was familiar. A quick scan and she realized why. This was the Scottish journo who had requested an interview a few weeks before. She’d forwarded it on to Zander, but he’d answered with an unequivocal no. It had stuck in her mind because he’d been unusually snappy about it. Wasn’t like him. But then, he was just out of rehab and not in the best place.
Emails done, she updated his calendar, ordered his meal choices for the week, all of them delivered in airtight, temperature-regulated dishes to the set, planned his workout schedule, dermatologist visit, and set a meeting with Guilloti’s people for the first fitting for his suits for awards season. It was still a couple of months away, but that’s how long the process took. Only when all that was done did she take out a book, a thriller by Denise Mina. She’d started reading Scottish thrillers when she first went to work for Zander and now she was addicted.
Twenty minutes from landing, after a blissful few hours, she turned the last page and woke up Zander. The shadowed, exhausted man who got on the plane was gone, replaced by bright eyes, a cute wink and a voice that was on the sexy side of twenty Marlboros a day.
‘Morning,’ he murmured. ‘Did the earth move for you?’
‘You wish. Orange juice there, your vitamins are on the table, coffee and toast coming up.’
‘I love you.’
‘You should.’
The night was dark when they landed, and as they descended the steps, Leandro was parked on the tarmac waiting for them.
Zander was happy to fly commercial when time constraints allowed, but there was no denying this was a kick-ass way to travel.
Leandro held the door open for Hollie, who was balancing her cream Birkin – last year’s Christmas present – an iPad and several shopping bags from Fifth Avenue stores. Zander decided it was safer not to ask.
‘I’ll drop you first and then head on home,’ Hollie told him.
‘Are you sure? I don’t mind swinging by your place first.’
Hollie’s Marina del Rey condo was a ten-minute drive from his home. When she first started working for him, she’d lived in the Valley, but they’d jointly decided that his life would benefit from having the person who ran it, sorted it and kept it out of the gutter living nearby.
‘Nope, it’s fine. Because if I get dropped first, you’ll get home, there will be some dire emergency and I’ll have to come over, and then sleep deprivation and a large dose of PMT will kick in and I’ll want to kill someone.’
‘I can’t think why you’re single. Really. Not a clue.’ Zander shrugged, face a picture of innocence.
‘Because I work for you,’ she blasted. ‘I have no life. None. This is like permanent charity work. I do it for the cause. Isn’t that right, Leandro?’
In the front, Leandro nodded. ‘Absolutely. Whereas I do it for the money. Sorry, Mr L, no offence.’
‘None taken.’
They cleared Van Nuys Airport and sailed right through to the 405, heading south.
This was his favourite hour in LA. Quiet traffic, night people, none of the stresses of the day. Right now, he wanted to tell Leandro to take a detour, head down Sunset, maybe stop at a club, grab a beer, but he knew if he even suggested it, Hollie would take him out. Sometimes it was difficult to say who was the boss in this relationship. In fact, scrub that – it was perfectly clear. Hollie trumped him every time.
The faint sounds of Blake Shelton came from the speakers and Zander reached over and turned up the volume. ‘Mine Would Be You’. One of his favourite songs. About someone sharing the best times of their life with the person they loved. Perhaps it was time he thought about getting his shit together. The weekend had been incredible, but for what? For Adrianna to go back to her husband and for him to go home to an empty apartment? Maybe now that he was clean, he should give the relationship thing a try.
Go for a bit of normality. Maybe even take some time off and think about travelling, maybe Nashville, somewhere south, just somewhere he could get away from the spotlight and take time to re-evaluate, live a life with no drama for a while.
‘Mr L, looks like we have a tail. Same car has been behind us since we left the airport.’
Hollie stretched round, peered through the glass.
‘Doesn’t look like a pap. Not their style. One driver. Woman. So I think we can safely say your friend in New York hasn’t sent a hit squad. Yet.’
Zander didn’t even bother turning round. If the tail was still there by the time they hit Venice, he’d flag up security and they’d drive straight to the cop shop. Standard procedure if he felt there was any threat. Which he didn’t. Probably just coincidence. Or a lone pap who got lucky – loads of them were women these days. Some had great covers too. Strolled into clubs and restaurants looking like they were there to party and as soon as they got up close, the cameras came out.
‘So who is she?’ Hollie asked herself out loud. ‘Definitely haven’t seen her before. Weird car for a pap. Not exactly low profile. Zander, do you know anyone who drives a red Mustang convertible?’
Nope. Nothing.
‘OK, let’s see where it goes. Leandro, head for home, but don’t turn off Lincoln until I say.’
Hollie grabbed her iPhone, held it near the back window and used the camera function to zoom in on the licence plate.
She called the studio’s head of security and put it on loudspeaker.
‘John, Hollie Callan. But then you probably already knew that because you’ve inserted some tracking chip in my ass.’
‘We only do that for very special clients, so yes, you’re right. What’s the boy wonder done now?’
‘I heard that,’ Zander shouted in, laughing. ‘You know I have a gun?’
Hollie pulled it back to business. ‘Listen, we have a tail and I’m texting you a licence plate. Red convertible. Female driver. Just want to make sure it’s nothing sinister. We’re about fifteen minutes out of Venice. Can you call me back?’
‘No problem. Don’t turn off Lincoln until you hear from me.’
‘Already done. This ain’t my first rodeo. But then the chip in my ass told you that.’
It took him less than five.
‘Rental. Female. Sarah McKenzie. Mean anything to either of you?’
Hollie nodded. ‘Yep, British journalist. Been trying to get facetime with Zander for a few weeks. Why the hell is she here? Bit of a drastic leap
for an interview.’
‘Want me to send over some guys to watch the building?’
‘Nah, it’s fine. One chick on her own. I can take her. With or without the boy wonder.’
John laughed. ‘I don’t doubt it. OK, call me back if you change your mind. You know where I am.’
Hollie hung up. ‘OK, let’s wait till we hit Lincoln, give her the benefit of the doubt for a while. If she hasn’t backed off by then, I’ll call the cops and have them intercept her. They can’t charge her with anything, but it’ll keep her out of the way for a while. At least long enough to get you home and out of sight. I should get danger money for this shit.’
Hollie swept round onto her knees and watched as the red convertible continued to follow. The privacy glass meant the journo chick wouldn’t see that they’d spotted her. Good. Better that way.
The car lurched to the side as Leandro turned it onto Lincoln and Hollie tapped in the private number for the Venice Police Department. Most local PD stations had them now, strictly for high-profile risks only. Wouldn’t do for a deranged stalker to take out a celebrity in the neighbourhood. Wouldn’t be good for business.
Four minutes.
Come on, lady, disappear. Two minutes.
Last chance, doll.
Hollie’s finger was about to press connect when she saw their pursuer lift a cell phone to her ear. Chat. Smile. Chat.
Must be a guy, Hollie decided.
Another smile, another chat, then . . . Yes!
The red car signalled right, slowed down and then did a U-turn, heading back up the way it had come. If that chick ever got bored with the newspaper industry, there would be a job for her in stunts.
52.
‘I Knew You Were Waiting’
– Aretha Franklin and George Michael
‘Hey. So I hear congratulations are in order,’ Sarah said, her tone light, before he’d even had a chance to kick off with hello.
Davie was suddenly too exhausted to even go with a shred of pretence.
‘On the record or off?’