Tess straightened her Dolce&Gabbana suit as she sat down. ‘Actually, it might not be as bad as you think.’
He looked at her suspiciously.
‘So you work for the Billingtons? I know Wendell very well’ he said, his eyes wandering away. Force of habit, thought Tess with a slight smile. In Hollywood, you were always scanning the room for someone more important, even if the room was empty.
‘Actually, I deal more with David and his fiancée Brooke.’
‘Personal publicist?’
‘Something like that.’
She ordered a white wine; she felt like she needed it. Despite her outward calm, her heart was pounding. Larry Goldman was a poor kid from Nevada who had become one of LA’s biggest players, his films were big budget and netted huge receipts – his last five films alone had taken over one billion dollars at the box office. The annual party he held at his home in Bel Air was one of the hottest tickets on the LA social calendar. Tess knew that you didn’t get to be that guy without being incredibly tough and utterly ruthless. For a second, Tess wondered how she could bargain with him and come out on top. She took a deep breath; she was about to find out.
‘So how do you know about Wycombe Square?’ he said before she could speak. His voice had lowered a couple of tones and his black eyes were now fully focused on her. She was taken aback at how nervous he was acting. For one moment, Tess wondered if she’d missed something, whether there was something bigger Larry was hiding. After all, it would surprise no one that a big–time super–rich Hollywood producer got his rocks off at a sex party. The coke–and–hooker antics of Tinseltown big shots like the late Don Simpson made Harvey’s nocturnal activities seem like teenage fumblings by comparison. She shook off the feeling and ploughed on. She had to focus on what she knew.
‘Before I worked for the Asgill family,’ she began, ‘I used to work for a British tabloid. A photographer of ours was doing a story on the Venus parties. She managed to infiltrate the Wycombe Square party.’
Larry looked at her blankly, giving nothing away. ‘I assume the story never ran,’ he said, ‘I’d have heard about it.’
‘You’re right. It never got published. I came to New York to work for the Asgills, and the story came with me. The details of that night and who was there won’t be public. For now, anyway.’
She took a sip of her spritzer. Her fingers left a clammy smudge on the stem of the glass, but Larry’s eyes never left hers.
‘What do you want from me, Miss Garrett? Money?’ he said in a cold voice. She had to tread carefully.
‘No, I don’t want your money, Mr Goldman. I need your help.’ She noticed the tight line of his mouth soften ever so slightly.
‘I’ve protected your privacy; I hope I now have your confidence. What I’m about to tell you is fairly sensitive.’
Larry looked at her, more interested now, and then nodded begrudgingly.
‘I have been hired to protect Brooke Asgill and David Billington’s interests,’ continued Tess slowly. ‘A member of the Asgill family is being blackmailed by an actor called Russ Ford and the information he has could be damaging.’
‘Russ Ford? Never heard of him.’ He swilled his water around in the bottom of his glass so that the ice cubes chinked against the side.
‘You won’t have. He’s small time.’
‘So what did they do? This member of the Asgill family. Kill someone?’
Tess hesitated before she told him. ‘They had a one–night stand. With Russ Ford.’
Larry was nodding sagely. ‘I get it. So this Asgill is gay. Is it Sean Asgill?’
Tess didn’t want him getting ahead of himself. She shook her head, careful not to tell him anything more than she had to.
She noticed that Larry was already looking at his watch and his drink had been finished. ‘So what’s this got to do with me?’
Tess folded her arms and leant forward on the table. ‘This Russ Ford guy is a creep,’ she said. ‘We can pay him off, of course, but the problem with people like Russ is that you have to keep paying them. When the time comes that he needs more money, he’ll be back. I need something that is more persuasive.’
She told him her plan. It was as underhand as anything she’d ever attempted as a Fleet Street hack, and she actually felt quite proud of it.
‘This guy had better not be the new Brad fucking Pitt.’
Tess shook her head. ‘I doubt it.’
Larry stared at her, his eyes narrowing. For a moment, Tess was sure he was going to tell her to go screw herself, maybe threaten to have her arrested, maybe even worse. Then, slowly, the lines around his eyes began to crinkle, and for the first time in their meeting, Larry smiled.
‘Fuck, you’re tough for a limey,’ he said admiringly, offering her his hand. ‘And I thought only New York chicks had balls.’
*
The Old Tap, on a side street on the Lower East Side, looked like every other bar Tess had ever seen on CSI and Law & Order. It was the sort of place where deals were done, secrets and information passed on. Long and thin, its bar running down the right–hand side, the wall lined with bottle spirits and illuminated signs advertising beer, The Old Tap was already busy, the padded bar propped up by tired–looking men wishing they could still smoke. Tess glanced around and took a vacant booth still cluttered with beer bottles. Russ had said he’d be wearing a leather jacket, but practically every man in the place had one on. A pretty waitress in bum–hugging jeans came over.
‘What are you having?
‘Do you do tea?’
‘No. Can getcha a coffee?’ Tess nodded. She didn’t like the drink, but she figured she wouldn’t be around long enough to enjoy it. Tess saw the handsome twenty–something man pushing in from the street several seconds before he saw her.
‘Tess?’
She nodded.
Russ unzipped his jacket and threw it onto the seat opposite Tess with a James Dean swagger. Shit, he really was good looking, thought Tess, for a second almost envying Liz’s wild encounter at Red Legs. Maybe we should have met in a McDonald’s, she thought. Bars were always more covet and sexy – more dangerous, too. The waitress put a cup of black coffee in front of Tess and Russ shook his hand to say he didn’t want anything.
‘I hope you’re not going to sit there and judge me,’ said Russ with a smile. Despite the even teeth and sharp cheekbones, Tess could detect a nastiness to Russ Ford. Maybe that’s why he’d never got anywhere. No one wants to work with an asshole, especially not a nobody asshole.
‘No Russ, I’m not here to judge,’ said Tess.
‘Because a woman like Liz Asgill shouldn’t do the things she does,’ he said loftily.
‘And you want to profit from her mistakes?’
‘As I told Liz, we’re considering it as patronage of the arts.’
She could see his eyes stray down towards her tote bag.
‘Is that for me?’ his head nodding towards a brown manila envelope that was poking out of her bag.
‘Yes it is.’
She put it on the table and pushed it towards him.
‘A cheque?’ he smiled, inching his fingers towards the brown paper.
Tess shook her head. ‘A letter from Larry Goldman. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.’
Russ’s expression was caught halfway between confusion and greed. Tess had to suppress a smile; she was surprised at just how much she was enjoying this.
She could see him try to relax and be more casual. Ah, that’s why he’s never taken off, she thought. He’s a terrible actor.
‘What does Goldman want?’ asked Russ. ‘Is this some sort of payment in kind? We didn’t talk about this but I could be open to it.’
Tess remained expressionless. ‘I think you’d better read it.’
She watched him open the letter, allowing him to read just a few lines before she spoke again.
‘You see, Larry is a friend of mine,’ said Tess slowly. ‘He’s also one of the most powerful men in Hollywood.
He can make careers and he can also break them in a heartbeat,’ she said, clicking her fingers.
Russ looked up and their eyes locked. In a matter of seconds, every hint of smugness had been snuffed out and she could almost feel his fear across the table.
‘Larry will have you blackballed from the entire entertainment industry if you breathe a word about Liz Asgill. You think times are tough for you now? You think acting jobs are a little thin on the ground? Believe me, you won’t be able to get a job shovelling shit off the Chinese Theater walkway if you say one word against Liz or any of the Asgills.’
Tess thought back to her drink with Larry. The producer hadn’t been too impressed by the ‘deal’. He was the sort of man used to having all the bargaining control and had not taken too kindly to being manipulated by some twenty–something British broad. But he had admired her chutzpah and was also relieved that Tess’s form of blackmail didn’t actually involve the exchange of money. The richer they were, the meaner they were; that was something she’d noticed around many very wealthy people. Something she doubted Russ Ford would ever find out.
‘But I had a deal with Liz Asgill,’ he blustered.
Tess shook her head. She was playing the hardest of hardball and she knew full well that this strategy carried a high degree of risk. She was gambling on him wanting a career in the movies very badly, but she’d done her homework. Russ had a decent agent and had landed a few bit–parts in the soaps and sitcoms. He’d even had a lead in a pilot for a series that was never made. Russ Ford had tasted success on the tip of his tongue and she was gambling on him being hooked on the taste, hoping he was desperate to keep his acting dream alive.
‘No Russ, you had a conversation with Liz Asgill. She spoke to me and I spoke to Larry. If you ask me, you’re getting off lightly after a stunt like that. Blackmail is a felony. The Asgills could end your career right now.’
The look on his face, panic, disappointment, disgust, told her she’d called the right way.
He let out a long breath. ‘So what happens now?’
‘What happens is that if you keep your mouth shut we can pretend none of this ever happened.’
Russ simply nodded.
‘Oh, and Russ?’
She put ten dollars down on the table to cover the bill and stood up to leave.
‘See you in Hollywood.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Brooke was taking Eileen Dunne to lunch. As the author was coming all the way from her hometown of Baltimore, Brooke had booked a table at Gordon Ramsay at The London to make an event of it. She wasn’t sure how she was going to justify such extravagance to Mimi when she signed off her expenses, in fact it was probably safer to pay for the lunch out of her own pocket, but, as far as Brooke was concerned, it was worth it. Already Eileen’s magician book Portico was creating a buzz around the Yellow Door offices, and not just in the children’s division. A senior publishing director in adult fiction was already making noises about rejacketing it for an adult edition and getting it shelf space in Wal–Mart, which was the holy grail for a children’s book. Hell, for any book.
To her surprise, Brooke found that she was uncommonly nervous about this meeting. She preferred to meet an author before acquiring a book to assess their marketability and whether she would enjoy working with them, but in the scramble to sign Eileen, that just hadn’t been possible. She’d spoken to her on the phone, of course, but that never really gave you an idea of who the person was. So, for all Brooke knew, Eileen Dunne was a Ku Kux Klan sympathizer with a series of dead bodies in her deep freeze. You’re just being silly now, she scolded herself, but Brooke was still edgy. Eileen’s book was fantastic, but in today’s market, that wasn’t enough – they needed a story, preferably a weepie. Brooke was well aware that J. K. Rowling’s back story as a single mum writing stories in an Edinburgh coffee shop had been perfect for developing her image as the ordinary person rising above the odds. Similarly, Stephanie Meyer’s image as a downtrodden Mormon mother, who thought of the plot for vampire love story Twilight in a dream, had worked wonders in interviews. They needed something equally PR–friendly with Eileen or there was still a chance her brilliant book would sink without trace.
Brooke tried to settle down at her round corner table and watched the opaque glass doors anxiously. Was that her? No, the woman entering was wearing a DVF wrap dress – this season’s – and Jimmy Choos. Her heart jumped again – no, just the maitre d’. Calm down, Brooke, she told herself, taking a sip of her fresh orange juice. And then there she was – Brooke was sure of it. A red–haired woman about her age, dressed in black trousers, a sparkly top and a strange nylon windcheater. She looked as if she‘d been unable to decide whether she was going for a walk in the rain or for a night on the town.
Brooke felt a little deflated, but stood up and smiled as Eileen walked timidly to the table.
‘Nice place,’ said Eileen weakly, looking around. She looked as though she expected someone to eject her at any moment.
‘I love it here. They have a great bon–bon trolley,’ smiled Brooke.
Eileen sat down, carefully removing her coat.
‘Let someone take that for you,’ offered Brooke, waving to the waiter.
Eileen looked up with alarm. ‘I’d better keep hold of it; it’s my mother’s. Ralph Lauren.’
The woman flushed and for one moment Brooke wondered if she should have picked another restaurant. Eileen looked awkward, sitting bolt upright with her precious nylon coat draped over the arm of her chair. Was this all too intimidating for her? Brooke stopped herself. She was being patronizing. Still, when the waiter approached, she made sure she gave Eileen a little time to settle herself as they read the menus.
‘I’ll have the pork,’ said Brooke.
‘I’ll have the same,’ said Eileen quickly. Brooke poured their water and glanced at her new author. She wasn’t bad looking, quite pretty in fact, but she had terrible blue eye shadow and too–red lipstick. She badly needed a makeover to bring out her best. Yes – Brooke felt sure she could help her in that department, thinking of all the designer clothes, bags, and cosmetics she got sent daily.
Eileen caught her appraising look and her hand flew nervously to her face.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘Oh nothing, I just expected you to be older,’ smiled Brooke.
‘Is it the name?’ she winced. ‘It’s a family tradition you see. The oldest girl gets the same name as her grandmother. Anyway, I was expecting you to be more scary.’
Brooke giggled, thinking of the paparazzi photos that got printed in the tabloids magazines. Shots when she’d be sneezing or rubbing something from her eye or just changing expression and which always seemed to make her look in pain or miserable. ‘I get that a lot.’
She took a sip of wine. ‘Well, I have to tell you that we are all so excited about Portico,’ said Brooke, ‘Although we will have to turn it around very, very quickly. Still, we’re getting there. The manuscript should be going into proof next week.’
‘What’s a proof exactly?’
‘An uncorrected manuscript bound up like a book. It goes out to retailers who decide if they want to order it. Then it goes out to the press so they can decide if they want to review it.’
‘Gosh, that’s a lot of hoops,’ said Eileen, wide–eyed.
‘Don’t worry, the whole company is getting behind it,’ said Brooke.
Eileen nodded and looked down at her lap, fiddling with the cuff of her mother’s jacket.
Brooke’s mouth opened as she saw that Eileen’s eyes were filling with tears.
‘Hey, hey, what’s wrong?’ she asked.
Eileen shook her head, still staring down. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just so grateful.’
Brooke felt her heart swell. She was so sweet. ‘You’re grateful?’ laughed Brooke. ‘Eileen, I’m the one who should be grateful. This is the book I’ve been waiting my whole career for.’
‘But for you, Brooke, publishing b
ooks is just a job, isn’t it?’ she replied not unkindly. Catching Brooke’s expression, she added: ‘I read US Weekly. You’re rich. You’re marrying into a family even richer.’
She blew her nose on the tissue Brooke offered her.
‘The difference is that you’ve changed my life,’ continued Eileen. ‘Six weeks ago I was working three jobs. That’s not easy when you have three kids as well.’
‘You have three kids?’ said Brooke, wondering if Eileen just looked very good for her age.
‘Oldest is eight. Youngest is three,’ she grinned. ‘And, before you ask, yes I am twenty–six.’
‘That’s incredible,’ said Brooke, taking a slow sip of water. ‘Not the fact you have three kids, of course, just that you manage to do everything. You must have a very supportive husband.’
Eileen looked down again. ‘He left me last year.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I have a habit of putting my foot in it.’
Eileen shook her head. ‘Don’t be. Danny – that’s my husband – he worked at the local garage. I went down there one night and found him in the office with the boss’s PA, pants round his ankles. My friends said “forgive him”, said “you need him” – and they were right, seeing as I’m only making twenty thousand bucks a year.’
‘But you kicked him out?’ said Brooke eagerly, wanting to hear more.
‘Sure I did! You don’t stay with a man who doesn’t respect you.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought it would be scary, being left with three kids, but I guess it’s best to be on your own than with someone who doesn’t really love you. Truth is, it was never right. I married Danny when I was eighteen because I got pregnant and I used to look at him and think, “Do I want to grow old with you?” “Do I want to share life’s adventure with you?” “Do you make me happy just by being there?” And the answer was no, so things happened for the best.’
‘It was still brave,’ said Brooke, marvelling at Eileen’s story.
‘Not really, but I guess it’s paid off now. See, the week after I threw his bags on the street, I started writing the book. I used to love writing stories at school, but when I left high school and got married I just didn’t have the time. But this time, I made time. Part of the reason was to keep me busy, to stop me thinking about how he … how he disappointed me. The other reason was to try and make some money. My friends were right about that much. Even three jobs doesn’t stretch very far when you’ve got three kids.’
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