Remember My Name
Havana Adams
What price would you pay for fame?Scriptwriter Talia knows ambition: she sees it in the mirror every day. But working with the world’s biggest divas should come with a health-warning. And when she finds herself in actress Tamara’s bad books, her own claws don’t look so sharp anymore…Suddenly, Talia’s back to looking up at the stars – and even more determined to take her place among them. And when she lands a job with Alex Golden - legendary womanizer, LA bad-boy and Hollywood’s hottest property - it looks like she could be on her way up. So long as she steers clear of Alex’s scandalous propositions…But Talia hasn’t nearly seen the worst that ambition can do. Because the road to fame may glitter… but it’s no easy ride. And in a world where winner takes all, some people will stop at nothing to claim their prize.
What price would you pay for fame?
Scriptwriter Talia knows ambition: she sees it in the mirror every day. But working with the world’s biggest divas should come with a health-warning. And when she finds herself in actress Tamara’s bad books, her own claws don’t look so sharp anymore…
Suddenly, Talia’s back to looking up at the stars – and even more determined to take her place among them. And when she lands a job with Alex Golden - legendary womanizer, LA bad-boy and Hollywood’s hottest property - it looks like she could be on her way up. So long as she steers clear of Alex’s scandalous propositions…
But Talia hasn’t nearly seen the worst that ambition can do. Because the road to fame may glitter… but it’s no easy ride. And in a world where winner takes all, some people will stop at nothing to claim their prize.
Also by Havana Adams (#ulink_4cff28e9-440d-5190-9eaa-5b05d9878f8d)
Black Diamond
Remember My Name
Havana Adams
Copyright (#ulink_f3eaec6f-5b42-5c5d-b667-5e4b1453d373)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014
Copyright © Havana Adams 2014
Havana Adams asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781474009096
Version date: 2018-06-20
HAVANA ADAMS
is a London girl who left her heart in New York City and she spends a lot of time plotting trips back across the pond. Growing up she was most often found with her head in a book, glued to a television or sneaking off to the cinema. And today, not much has changed. When she’s not plotting novels, Havana works in the film and TV industry. Havana loves visiting new places and travelling the world as inspiration for her writing. She’s also a keen runner, baker and foodie.
I’d like to thank Rowan Lawton whose encouragement and feedback on the first few chapters spurred me on to finish the first draft.
A big thank you to the NANOWRIMO community, who every year give me the kick I need to sit down and get writing.
I’d also like to thank my friends, many of whom were the first readers of my manuscript, for their continued support, pep talks and general awesomeness. Thanks to Destiny, Bryony, Monique, Karen, Vicky.
Most importantly, big thanks to my family for putting up with me and for being hugely supportive of my efforts, listening to a lot of writing and ideas talk and always being there at GDIAK moments.
To my friends and family for believing in me and for all their support.
Contents
Cover (#ud0e5b3f8-c4d6-5f3b-8a7b-5bc7c81a870f)
Blurb (#ub1899314-598a-5b56-8744-ab87f467cef3)
Book List (#u6a2c1225-cd70-5a6b-a397-bb471ef275e2)
Title Page (#uf1098fd2-7aec-513c-b430-a21b4f6ee474)
Copyright (#u7f6e859c-dd6e-5186-a661-e5899ee111ca)
Author Bio (#u0ea42310-6f0f-523a-836b-5d70a717f67a)
Acknowledgements (#u8271aa55-00c9-5175-bdf3-1a1ce744701c)
Dedication (#u3e173c22-7d86-5259-ba46-1a9c1a92e248)
Prologue (#ua7b55a5c-0ecc-5e21-8e9f-310dc7c0f508)
Chapter 1 (#ub49306a1-d67c-5dad-833e-cf101e1c93dc)
Chapter 2 (#ue35cfa0f-34b7-5e28-a017-fc9d8684f62c)
Chapter 3 (#uc1dadb04-714a-5a58-bead-d06031ee4c9c)
Chapter 4 (#uc67e8bbb-0407-534a-848b-1136d95fa2f4)
Chapter 5 (#u2d0cc659-80d9-5382-91f4-7c7814203f7e)
Chapter 6 (#ufcfe3f59-19c8-5ec2-86d9-6ca8110f8828)
Chapter 7 (#ua1a0ace9-96a9-5b64-a214-a4e7f3d72d63)
Chapter 8 (#ubd0235c6-3cbc-560f-905d-51ccc13fdf54)
Chapter 9 (#ud99c4238-6488-5cd3-b94c-8b3ea43234ef)
Chapter 10 (#u8d52b62f-3db5-50d2-93ee-b22a62755f21)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_b134c1ea-e502-55f5-bd87-67676598f090)
On the night, aged 26, that he was catapulted from obscurity, from jobbing theatre actor and TV bit-part player to Oscar winner, Alex Golden looked out at the great and good of Hollywood. He stared beyond the flashing lights and cameras at the legends of the silver screen, he imagined the millions, perhaps billions watching the telecast of the ceremony, and the words of his grandfather came to mind.
“Son,” he’d once counselled Alex, “the thing about peaking too soon, is the certain knowledge that the only place to go is down.”
Alex shrugged off the pessimistic thought and loped towards the podium in a long, easy stride, oozing the confidence and charisma that would go on to make him a household name.
“Thank you,” he said in that husky voice that would make him the favourite of women, gays and schoolgirls the world over.
Later, it wouldn’t be the words that he’d uttered on that stage that ensured that everybody remembered his name, instead it would be those piercing blue eyes, framed by thick, dark lashes, the English accent that added gravitas, the easy smile that showed that he didn’t take himself too seriously. In short, Alex Golden’s acceptance speech – witty, assured, relaxed – announced him as Hollywood’s newest star.
“We are back live in fifteen seconds. Camera One – ready. Presenters – Best Adapted Screenplay to the stage. Live in ten, nine, eight…” As the award show’s director barked out instructions, Alex walked backstage in a daze as a whirlwind of activity spun around him. Immediately, he spotted a woman in a striking crimson dress watching him from across the chaos of the green room. His palm was warm against the surprisingly heavy gold statuette and though outwardly composed, inside he was in a state of shock, drinking in the sight of Streep and Nicholson as they swept by him onto the stage to present the next award. Alex’s eyes were once again drawn to the woman who was watching him. In the sea of famous faces and celebrities, producers, PRs and hangers-on, somehow this woman, in her red dress, held his attention.
She pushed forward, coming to stand in front of him, her right hand already held out. Close up, Alex saw that she was older than he’d initially thought. Yet for a woman who must be in her forties, the body was still killer. His eyes ate her up, skimming from the large breasts, which oozed over the top of the corseted red dress, to the slim waist and then the flare of generous hips. His gaze moved back up to her eyes and with a start Alex saw that the woman’s eyes were narrowed, with a hint of knowing amusement. This wasn’t the usual response that he got from women. He switched the gold statuette to his left hand and gave her a firm handshake. He was sure that he didn’t know this woman, but in the three weeks of meetings, junkets and publicity since he had landed in LA, he’d learned that people did this here, that sometimes for no reason at all, they’d stop to talk to you, that somehow everybody, just everybody, was in the business and wanted to know about his “little English movie”.
Before he could say anything, the woman spoke, her hand still grasping his in a surprisingly firm grip. Her words were brisk and precise, almost like orders being barked out, in the kind of no-nonsense New York drawl that brooked no disagreement.
“My name is Avital Silver. And I’m going to make you a superstar.”
CHAPTER 1 (#ulink_f486b3ea-1630-5eeb-a5ae-9e388a86eff7)
TEN YEARS LATER
The shot was worth a million bucks.
Any paparazzo worth his salt would kill to capture the image of movie star Alex Golden, Hollywood’s legendary Modeliser, sprawled almost naked but for a pair of Gucci board shorts that hung low down on his hips, revealing a perfectly smooth chest and tanned, ripped, Hollywood-perfected abs. Next to him lay a woman whose triple threat of lips, breasts and legs had made grown men weep, and more besides. Alex reclined on a sun bed as he stared out on the startling azure-blue sea at the exclusive resort on the Mexican coastline. In the distance came whoops and squeals of a group of people on powerful jet skis as they skimmed across the horizon, shooting plumes of water in the air behind them. Just watching them made Alex feel tired and he pushed his sunglasses down on his face.
“Christ my head is pounding.” He muttered the words with a small groan but was met with silence. He turned with a lazy glance, reaching out to touch the woman next to him. His hand skimmed her flat abdomen, before falling away. They hadn’t stayed long at the film premiere after-party the night before; just long enough for Alex to be photographed next to his ambitious young co-star, model turned actress Tyler Link, and of course long enough for him to be nursing a hangover as a result of too much vintage Perrier-Jouët champagne, which had been free-flowing at the VIP bash For a moment Alex was filled with a beat of nostalgia; you’re getting old, a voice in his head taunted him. Shaking the thought away, Alex rose to his feet, turning to stand over the sun lounger next to his.
“You’re blocking my sunlight.” Isabella finally spoke, pouting sulkily and yet so prettily as the words whispered out of her pink and improbably plump lips. Alex watched her for a moment. Most of her face was obscured by the large brim of a white Dior sunhat but what was visible of her was still incredible. Still recognisable as the face and body of Isabella Murada, one of the world’s highest paid supermodels. She and Alex shared a publicist, who had introduced them at some charity benefit in Los Angeles. Alex had only just ended another headline-grabbing fling with a swimwear model and the timing had been good. That same night he’d taken Isabella back to his suite at Chateau Marmont and they’d been together the last five months which, by his usual standards, was practically an eternity. He continued to stare down at Isabella knowing that she would soon snap. A devoted sun worshipper, Isabella hated the possibility of tanning unevenly. He stared at her lips, which were thrust forward sulkily and his eyes drifted lower to the unselfconscious way that she tanned topless. He leaned down to stroke a finger across her nipple.
“Come into the water,” he asked softly. Her breasts were large, gorgeous and fake, of course, but still with enough softness and movement in them to fool the untutored observer. He, however, was an expert. How could he not be, after ten years of fucking models and starlets?
It had started quite by accident this reputation of his, but slowly it had transformed into an unshakeable part of his reputation. Sure, there was the occasional actress thrown into the mix, the odd solo singer and famously, once, a pair of burlesque performing twins, but for the most part Alex Golden lived up to his reputation as The Modeliser.
He pressed a kiss to Isabella’s breasts and then stretched to his full 6feet 4 inches. “Come into the water,” he asked again.
“No,” Isabella snapped back.
Mostly Alex liked the rough Portuguese twang in her Brazilian-accented English, but some days like today, the harsh sounds grated. “You’re not still angry?” He gritted his teeth. Isabella could carry a grudge and her silent treatments had been known to last for days. With a sigh he banked down his building irritation with her. “Isabella,” he cajoled softly.
“You embarrass me at the premiere, laughing and joking for the cameras with that, that…model.” Her words were hissed out of pursed lips and Alex fought to hide his disinterest, which was laced too with some amusement. The contempt with which she spat the word ‘model’ might lead anyone to think that she wasn’t one herself.
“Tyler is my co-star, I didn’t have much choice.” Alex sighed as Isabella folded her arms beneath her breasts and turned her head away so that all he could see was her jaw and the perfect, unblemished profile that had fronted countless cosmetic campaigns and adorned billboards in Milan, Paris, New York and London. “Fine,” he said and with a shrug he turned and walked towards the pool and dived in with a clean, perfect arc that caused barely a ripple.
After pounding the length of the pool for several long minutes, as much to escape the heat of Isabella’s building temper as to cool down, Alex levered himself out of the pool and again looked towards the sea. She was no longer in her sun lounger. Grabbing his towel, he dried his hair roughly, even as the hot sun rapidly dried his skin, till only a few droplets kissed his muscular shoulders. A little way from the house, he spotted a movement and grimaced, watching as the blistering sun flashed and reflected against something hidden behind the bushes. It was a tell which Alex had grown familiar with these last ten years; the paparazzi had found them.
The ever-present paparazzi who knew his itinerary even before he did, who skulked around for scandal, which more often than not he provided for them and their vast hoards of gossip-hungry readers. Alex continued to dry his hair and with the trademark cool that had made him a star, he dropped his towel, stretching his arms high above his head, uncaring of his near nakedness and the telescopic lenses trained on him, and then slowly he padded barefoot towards the house.
For the first time in the last few weeks, Alex felt the tension drain away from him, his feet warmed by the terracotta of the floors which baked in the sun as he moved into the house. Though Avital, his agent, hid it well, he had sensed her tension, had known that she and the studios were closely watching his latest film. He was no brainless himbo, he too had noted that though they were still hitting number one, his films weren’t doing what they used to at the box office. He knew without anyone telling him that Deadlock had to reach number one and stay there.
As he padded around the villa, there was still no sign of Isabella and he was not inclined to go and find her. Now, with a clearer head, he looked around the opulent open-plan living room. Their stay here had come courtesy of millionaire producer and Hollywood royalty, Milo Levy. The paintings that last night he and Isabella had brushed past without even a glance were in the light of day revealed to be Picasso sketches and vibrant Modigliani nudes that wouldn’t be out of place in some national gallery somewhere. Alex smiled and slumped down onto a white chaise longue in the living room, fumbling around for the TV remote, which he used to flick on the massive plasma screen TV that was mounted on a wall. For a couple of minutes, he channel surfed without interest, finally tossing aside the remote as he spotted his Mulberry overnight bag where he had carelessly dumped it the night before. He reached into it pulling out a platinum Vertu mobile phone. He had several missed calls, most of which he wouldn’t return. The last name on the list was his sister’s and he clicked on it, feeling a twinge of guilt. He’d missed several telephone calls from her in the last few days and with the crazy schedule of promotion in the lead-up to the film’s release, he’d not had a chance to call her back. Leaning back into the sofa, he prepared to return his sister’s call when something on the television caught his attention. It was an image of himself.
Not that this was an unusual occurrence but curious in spite of himself, Alex threw aside his phone and flicked the volume up with the television remote. Now he spotted that the TV was on Z News, a Hollywood celebrity news channel, which seemed inescapable wherever one was in the world. The presenter was in full flow.
“And Hollywood buzz is saying the Alex Golden is out and Max Maguire is in for the big budget adventure trilogy Defender, we’ll have more on this breaking story as it comes in.” For a moment Alex was frozen as the photograph of Max Maguire flicked off the screen to be replaced by another image as the presenter moved on. He flicked the TV back to silent, noting in a beat that the tension in his neck was back.
Alex had never been especially competitive, but Max Maguire infuriated him as few others could. Somehow he seemed determined to cast himself as ‘The New Alex Golden’ and in recent months they had butted heads and wound up in talks for the same roles. Not that he needed to compete for scripts but something about Max unsettled him, not least that he was five years younger than him. Alex had been determined to land the title role in Defender, a trilogy of films from Australian director Cole Sidney that seemed likely to do for sci-fi what Lord of the Rings had done for fantasy. The buzz was immense and he had assumed, after a chat with the director, that the arrival of an offer was a mere formality. The azure blue of the sea that had been so calming now had little effect on him; all he could feel was the onset of a pounding headache. He would have to call Avital.
He pushed himself off the sofa, just as Isabella emerged from the bedroom, now naked beneath a sheer silk wrap.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she pouted at him, this time with a hint of the mischievous smile that made men go weak. Alex grimaced; he hadn’t time for Isabella, not now. He turned his back on her, reaching for his mobile phone.
“I have to call Avital.” He tapped at Avital’s name in his speed dial list, even as he could hear the faint slap of Isabella’s bare feet against the floor as she moved towards him. As he was about to connect the call, he felt a whisper of silk, followed by her naked breasts, pressed against his back.
“Do you have to?” she asked, though it wasn’t really a question. She’d already traced her cool hands around his narrow waist and up his chest to his arm before gently squeezing his bicep. She took the phone out of his hand and threw it onto the sofa, where it landed silently on the thick pile of cushions. Then, she snaked her arm around his waist again and pulled him around to face her. Isabella pressed herself against him, pinning him to the cabinet behind them. Her tongue flicked out to lick her bee-stung lips and Alex followed the movement with a hungry look, already diverted from his plan; Avital could wait. She leaned in and teased his lips with her tongue and then, in that way that she did, she kissed him, hard. He’d always been struck by the forceful, almost masculine single-mindedness that Isabella brought to sex; how she always made sure to take her pleasure first. But tonight it seemed her earlier bad mood was forgotten and it was all about him. She kissed him again, her tongue fighting with his, biting his lower lip roughly and then she leaned down to lick his nipple, before slowly sinking to her knees. Freeing him from his swimming shorts, she made a deep appreciative noise in her throat as she gripped him tight before slowly starting to stroke her hand up and down. As she bent to kiss the tip, she looked up and winked at him and Alex gave a short, breathless bark of laughter.
Isabella Murada on her knees with his cock in her mouth; that truly was a million dollar shot. And movie star or not, Alex was still man enough to appreciate it.
Later, as they lay in the massive bed on 750-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, the windows thrown open so that the silvery white light of the full moon flickered into the room, Alex watched Isabella sleep, as she always did, naked on her back. One arm was flung over her head and the other rested low on her abdomen. Even in sleep she looked ready for sex. He would miss her, he thought. Isabella was a smart girl and in a town defined by transactional relationships, where everyone used everyone, Alex understood her desire to be with him. She had left a Spanish millionaire for him and though the sex was good, great even, Alex wasn’t so arrogant as to think that was the full story. Isabella was 28, in model years practically middle-aged. She was a woman looking for her next step, she wanted to make the crossover from model to actress and she’d decided that he was her ticket there. He hadn’t minded really but somehow this afternoon, he’d realised that he was bored, that he needed something new, some new challenge. He needed to shake things up and as every model that had gone before Isabella had learned, when Alex moved on, he was gone. The shift was brutal and immediate and Alex had perfected a principle of never going back and never looking back. He never hooked up with his exes, never revisited fields that he had already ploughed. There’d be a gift, one phone call – the mark of the English gentleman that he was – but when it was over, it was over. Isabella must have sensed his boredom.
“You and me, we’re good together,” she had reminded him earlier, as she had sat astride him, still panting. And Alex had smiled. But once they were back in LA he knew they’d be over. He’d made a life of loving and leaving women. There was no reason to change his ways now.
CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_e6cb2b79-f906-5923-a77e-8138e6989ff5)
“Harder, do it harder.”
Three days later and half a world away on a bright London morning, Talia Blake was woken by this loud, rasping instruction and she blinked with disorientation even as her bed was shaken, beat after beat after beat, by a pounding from the room next door.
“Oh for fuck’s sake. Nina!” Talia yelled in frustration as she snapped awake and sat upright in bed gritting her teeth, even as the lovers came, apparently simultaneously, in the kind of crescendo of banging and squealing that would make a philharmonic orchestra proud. Not for the first time, she wondered how it was that she always managed to land herself with nymphomaniacs for flatmates. As the aerobics finally subsided, she glanced at her bedside alarm clock: 6.15am; she could still have another half hour in bed. She snuggled down under her thin summer duvet and tried to find a comfortable spot as another squeal rang through the dividing wall. Nina and her gentleman caller were going for an encore performance.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath and, with a muted scream of frustration, Talia gave up on sleep. She kicked the duvet aside and swung her feet onto the floor. She looked down at the improbably high, attention-grabbing scarlet Charlotte Olympia platform shoes which she’d kicked off last night before falling into bed. Reaching down to grab one of the pair, she banged it hard against the wall giving four hard knocks. It had little effect and the sound of frantic lovemaking continued unabated, if anything getting louder.
Nina had once told Talia with a degree of pride that she was sure she could fuck through an earthquake. Talia was sad to report that she now knew this to be true, probably. To think after her last two disastrous flatmates, she’d deliberately sought out a single roommate. Talia thought longingly about the day when she would finally have a place of her own. She wished she could afford to rent alone or better still, buy a flat of her own. Perhaps it was her Only Child Syndrome rearing its head but so many mornings she longed to lie in for as long as she liked, she longed not to have to race to the shower, not to be confronted by mess that wasn’t hers, she longed not to be confronted by evidence of other people’s sex lives.
Wearily she stood up and grimaced as she caught sight of last night’s make-up now smeared all over her face. She’d been too exhausted to wash it off when she’d finally rolled in, dropped at her front door by a black cab after three in the morning. Thinking about last night brought a smile to Talia’s face. The Gilded Cage, a top London club that routinely welcomed celebrities from all over the world, had played host to the summer party of Encounters, the highest-rated soap opera on television. Talia as a storyliner on the show had been there, albeit with some reluctance. She hated parties; she’d often told herself that she simply didn’t have the party gene. She could never hear above the music, never knew how to approach people and start off conversations, and she didn’t drink enough for alcohol to save her either. She might have found an excuse not to go but one of her closest friends, Simone, who also worked in television, had extracted a promise from her that she would make an effort and turn up, if only for her career’s sake.
Darting through the throng of paparazzi and autograph hunters determined to catch a glimpse of the show’s stars, Talia had planned on staying only an hour or two, get her face seen and then leave but surprisingly she’d found she actually enjoyed the party. No expense had been spared, from fire eaters, to stilt walkers to fortune tellers, and she had been glad that she’d forced herself to put on the only sexy dress in her wardrobe, a Diane von Fürstenberg, a gift from her best friend, Helena, which she had never worn before. Even Tamara, the show’s resident bitch both on and off screen, had paid her a compliment.
“Darling, what a transformation, very dramatic.” Tamara had smiled, air kissing in her general direction before disappearing through the crowd, leaving Talia dazed in a heavy cloud of Chanel No 5.
The DVF dress, a dramatic statement against her brown skin, was a distinctive print of vibrant yellows, reds and greens, the kind of bright colours that Talia usually shunned, but from all the compliments she’d received the night before, she’d realised that perhaps colour should play a larger part in her wardrobe. She’d teamed the dress with the high Charlotte Olympia heels. The heels also came from Helena who, as an editor on style bible Époque, had access to an apparently limitless fashion cupboard, which meant she was constantly pressing beautiful designer accessories on Talia. Between Helena and Simone, Talia often found herself being lectured about her refusal to engage with fashion.
“I’m not into pain and all these clothes are just not comfortable or even practical,” Talia had once told Helena, but her friend had simply snorted and the gifts continued. It wasn’t that Talia couldn’t see the beauty in designer clothes; it was simply that her budget didn’t stretch to the frothy, outlandish garments that were a part of Helena’s world. For Helena, fashion was life. But for Talia, nothing was more important than her career at Encounters. She liked comfortable, practical things and, as she’d found, tottering around in the platform shoes the night before, fashionable and comfortable didn’t seem to go hand in hand.
Nevertheless, she had actually enjoyed the party and danced to every song on the dance floor. Once during the night, she’d found herself pressed against a wall by an insistent First Assistant Director from the show.
“You look so fucking gorgeous in the dress, I should have talked to you before now.” The drunken confession had been followed by a very wet kiss. For Talia this was pretty much unheard of and she allowed a small smile. She could practically hear Helena’s voice now – “You should have gone home with him.” She might not have followed Helena’s standard advice but Talia still allowed herself a small pat on the back at her small progress. She’d not pushed the AD away immediately; she’d allowed him to kiss her for a moment, never mind that the smell of beer on his breath slightly turned her stomach.
In the room next door, Nina and her lover had finally subsided and Talia flicked on the radio then moved to the small desk in the corner of her bedroom. She powered up her MacBook, as she did every morning without fail. As the laptop loaded up, Talia pulled some clothes out of the wardrobe, paying slightly more attention than usual to what she picked out. It was appraisal day today and she wanted to look smart. She’d already been prepped for what to expect and Talia felt a shiver of excitement, which she quickly banked down. As the sound of the computer starting up rang out, an image appeared on the screen for a moment and Talia felt a buzz of appreciation run through her. It was a photograph of a bag; a bag of the finest burnished leather, an oak-coloured Mulberry Bayswater designer handbag. Though she usually had little interest in high fashion, something about this bag had captured Talia’s imagination and she had decided that she would buy herself one, when she received her promotion. That day was today. All her slogging on the story team, all the late nights and early mornings, would finally pay off. Talia thought back to the conversation she’d had last week with her boss.
“So, Martin’s decided to move to LA and write movies.” Rick had strolled into her office drawling the words with a confident smirk as Talia had paused in her typing to look up at him.
“What?” she had squealed. “He has a contract.” Rick had smiled then.
“Don’t worry, he’ll be back. We pay them well, they get too big for their boots, think they’re going to LA to run things.” Rick had snorted. “Martin is very well looked after here, he won’t last in LA for long, being a very small fish writer from England in a very big pond.”
Talia had nodded. Rick was right but it didn’t solve their immediate predicament. “But what do we do while he finds himself? We’re already a writer short on the core team and we’ve got some major storylines coming up. Martin knows this show better than anyone.”
“Not better than you,” Rick had fired back at her. Talia looked up at him confused.
“What do you mean?” she’d finally asked, her heart already racing.
“I mean that you’re getting what you wanted. As of next week, after your appraisal, you’ll be the newest member of the core writing team.”
“What!” Talia had spluttered, shocked, even as she was filled with nervous excitement.
“Tal, you’ve rewritten half the scripts for the last two years and ghosted the other half. You’re a great writer and it’s what you want, isn’t it?” Rick had shot her a challenging look.
She’d nodded. It was what she wanted, more than anything. Finally she would be a writer, writing on the show that had consumed her life the last few years. “I won’t let you guys down. I promise.”
Talia leaned back in her chair as the image of the designer handbag disappeared. Today, that conversation would finally be made official. She clicked an icon on the computer screen and watched as the story document loaded up. She tapped in the obligatory password that the screen demanded before she could access the confidential storylines that marked out the next year of stories on the show. Even after four years in which she’d battled her way up the ranks, she still felt a frisson of pride and excitement whenever she typed in her password. She’d always been good at keeping secrets and there was something potent about knowing how stories would play out, how characters loved by the entire country would be doing in one year’s time. Though many had tried, Talia was scrupulous about never giving anything away and eventually her friends had stopped asking for hints or spoilers.
Within minutes, she was lost in the world of Melanie, Jordan, Eloise and Carlos and the other workers at the Encounters boutique who kept TV audiences spellbound and kept the show at the top of the ratings. These stories, which would be her last as storyliner, promised a bombshell Christmas revelation; she’d definitely saved the best for last. After today, she was heading for the writers’ room. Not merely devising the stories but now actually writing the dialogue, the scripts – the whole nine yards. Talia smiled, imagining her rosy future, and then she gasped, leaping to her feet as she caught sight of the clock. She’d miss her train at this rate.
She showered quickly, throwing on clothes at breakneck speed. She skipped breakfast and was ready to head out in less than twenty minutes even though her brown hair hung in damp frizzy tendrils around her shoulders and face. It was a bright day and the sun already shone over London, with the weather forecast promising a fine summer’s day. As she passed the hallway mirror, Talia sighed as she caught a glimpse of her deep brown hair, which was already drying in untidy curls around her face; so much for the sleek look she’d hoped to present for the meeting that afternoon. Her eyes darted to the clock; she’d probably miss the train anyway, she might as well take the time to tame her hair. Decision made, Talia allowed her battered workbag, an ageing leather satchel, to drop to the floor and she made her way into her room, grabbing the hairdryer. As she vigorously dried her hair, a man emerged from Nina’s bedroom. Talia was relieved to see that he was dressed; they weren’t always. The man was heading out but he stopped as he spotted Talia through her open bedroom door.
“Hi,” Talia nodded at him, surprised that she actually recognised him. In the seven months she’d lived with Nina, she’d gained a breezy insouciance in dealing with strange men who never made a repeat appearance but this one, Javier, had been around several times in the last few weeks. If any man could make Nina give up her life of one-night stands, she supposed this was a pretty fine choice. He was tall, around 6ft, she guessed and could very well be in the dictionary next to the description for tall, dark and handsome.
“Good morning, Talia.” He smiled at her as he spoke, his voice deep with an accented inflexion that hinted at his Cuban roots. “Good party last night?”
Talia nodded. “I didn’t wake you when I came in, did I?” She felt a moment of guilt; perhaps she’d been less than considerate when she’d tottered in, unsteady in her heels.
“Of course not. It’s good to have some fun, no?” Javier smiled. “I’ll see you later,” he said as he moved to the front door.
She watched him go with a small twinge of irritation. Why did everybody think that she didn’t have any fun? She heard the front door open and close and she continued briskly straightening her hair till it framed her face. Digging into her bag, which was heavy with scripts, rehearsal drafts and story documents, Talia pulled out her battered make-up bag, the same one she’d carried for years. Most of the make-up contained in it hadn’t been changed in ages. She dabbed on some foundation and followed that with a dash of bronze eye shadow, an unevenly drawn line of black across her lids and then she pouted into the mirror as she layered a thick gloop of gloss on her lips. Talia smiled at the effect, it was rare for her to take the time to wear make-up and she’d always thought that one day she would like to take a make-up class and learn to apply it properly. After all the sacrifices she’d made to make it as a storyliner and cross over to writing, perhaps now she might get the chance to take that make-up class, or do yoga – maybe she’d finally do all those things she’d been meaning to do the last few years. Talia smiled a rueful smile; she wasn’t fooling herself. She was a workaholic, always had been. Whatever she turned her mind to had always consumed her. She glanced again at her watch; still a few minutes before she had to leave home to catch the next train to the studios. It was a sunny morning and she decided to walk slowly and grab a coffee on the way to the station. Just then Nina’s door opened once again.
Oomph! Before Talia could say anything she was enveloped in a hug from Nina.
“Morning, Tal.” Slowly Talia untangled herself from the embrace. She looked into her roommate’s face looking for some sign that might explain this utterly uncharacteristic display of affection.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. Nina laughed, that deep dirty laugh that wouldn’t be out of place in a smoky club but which in broad daylight always seemed slightly indecent and rather too filthy for company.
“Silly, nothing’s wrong,” Nina said as she took Talia by the arm and walked her to their open-plan kitchen. “Shall I make you a coffee?” Now Talia was worried, it was almost unheard of for Nina to offer to do anything to help anyone.
“Sure,” she murmured, even as Nina was already flicking the kettle on and casting around for a mug, looking like a stranger adrift in her own kitchen. Talia watched her with distracted confusion; it wasn’t that she didn’t care about Nina’s dramas, but she really didn’t want to miss her next train. Nina handed her a cup of comically white coffee and Talia sipped it warily, aware that her roommate watched her with what could only be described as a beatific smile on her face.
“So I have some news,” Nina smiled and suddenly Talia knew. She’d had enough of these conversations, after all. Like bottles falling off the wall, so too all the women of a certain age of her acquaintance were being picked off.
“Javier and I, we’re getting married.” The last words came out of Nina’s mouth in a squeal of drama and excitement and even though a wash of dismay filled her, Talia took her cue.
“Congratulations! Honey, congratulations.” She rushed around the kitchen table to press a hug on Nina. “Wow, that’s amazing.”
“Isn’t it?” Nina murmured wrapped in a cocoon of happiness. Now Nina held her hand with a nod of understanding in her eyes and Talia knew what was coming, what always followed. Dammit, she’d actually believed all of Nina’s “I’m supposed to be single, I can’t do monogamy” rubbish.
“The thing is, Tal, you know how much I love living with you it’s just that Javier and I, we’ve decided to move to Cuba.” For a moment Talia felt a surge of hope, perhaps she might stay in the flat and wouldn’t once again, for the fourth time in as many years, be required to pack her bags. “So I’ve decided to sell the flat.” The bubble of hope deflated quickly and Talia nodded what she hoped was a supportive nod. “I know you’ll find somewhere that’s just perfect for you.” Now Nina looked down, her long lashes resting on her cheekbones. “You’re not cross with me are you?”
She’s playing me, Talia thought with a flash of irritation. She’d seen Nina use that same look many times with men. “Don’t be silly. I’m just so happy for you.” At this her roommate breathed a sigh of relief.
“Great.” Then she looked seriously again at Talia. Now she wore her sincere expression, the one she used when talking about designer shoes. “Honey, I know you don’t like to talk about these things, but you’ll find your own prince… How’s Steven?” Talia’s smile had started to feel strained and at this mention of Steven whom she’d disastrously dated for five long months after meeting him on the dating site everafter.com. Talia felt the start of a headache. She hated when her newly engaged friends started to hand out relationship advice, like newly converted Christians determined to bring everyone else into the fold.
“Thanks, hon,” Talia murmured with false sincerity and her eyes darted again to her watch. “Listen, I’ve got to run to catch the train. But cocktails later to celebrate?”
“Yay,” Nina smiled. “Isn’t it your big appraisal today?” Talia started in surprise; Nina really was making an effort, she was rarely interested in anything that wasn’t about her.
“Yes, gotta run.” As she moved quickly towards the front door, her hardly-worn Mary Jane shoes clicking on the wood floors, Talia fought to get her mind back on work and away from Nina’s bombshell.
“Good luck,” she heard Nina call out as she slammed the front door shut.
By the time she sat down in the carriage having just, by the skin of her teeth, caught the train, Talia had already started to get her perspective back. Good for Nina. Who knew that the high priestess of sex, booze and food could fall in love? Get married no less. She squashed down the uncharitable thought that she’d had tubes of toothpaste for longer than Nina had known her intended. She hoped it would work out for them. As for her fears about moving again, perhaps it was the perfect time for her to look into getting her own place. With the promotion to the writing team, she’d get a raise and surely that would be enough to fund renting alone whilst she built up a deposit to buy her own flat. As the train headed northwards to the outskirts of London where the Encounters studio was located, Talia felt happier. Her life was finally starting, everything she’d worked for was coming together; it was only right that she moved on from Nina’s flat. Across the aisle from her, a fellow commuter reached into her bag and dug out a copy of Soap Lives magazine. Talia smiled and felt a moment of pride as she spotted the cover of the magazine. Two of the characters from Encounters stared back at her, the stars of a storyline that she’d created. Finally, Talia allowed herself to relax; everything she’d worked for was within her grasp.
CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_e6226298-9bae-5334-83f8-d8916c2c3fa2)
Tamara Fearson was coming down from a blissful orgasm.
An all-consuming, earth shattering, lose all sense of time and place kind of orgasm; the kind she’d never been able to reach with any man. Once, there’d been a man who’d been able to push her buttons, push her close to the edge, almost make her forget who she was, but that was a long time ago and the less Tamara thought about him, the better. Men made women weak, she thought, and she could not afford to be weak. Slowly, she allowed her boneless, enervated body to sink deeper into her silk sheets and chuckled quietly to herself. The triumph of the night before was still in her blood. She lifted a limp arm to wipe at the sheen of perspiration on her forehead and then, she rolled over onto her side, feeling her heartbeat finally start to slow down. With a languorous move, Tamara kicked the thin sheet to the end of the bed, exposing her nude body to the coolness of her bedroom.
Hazy sunlight flickered through gauzy curtains, which hung in the window of her Primrose Hill mews house. Across from the bed was a floor-to-ceiling mirror and Tamara lay perfectly still, luxuriating in the reflection of herself that greeted her. She stared at herself critically but with a measure of pride. At thirty-six, she looked better now than she had at sixteen, when she’d first boarded a plane out of the small Australian town where she was born. By twenty-one she’d been modelling in Sydney before she’d landed in an Aussie soap that was watched all over the world.
Tamara rose slowly from the bed with unhurried movements, uncaring that her driver would soon arrive to ferry her to set. Tamara always slept in the nude, so that every morning she was greeted by this full-length reflection of her body – no wrinkle, no unsightly extra inch, no blemish would be missed. Ruthlessly she hunted down, dissected and where necessary rectified her own faults before anyone else could take her to task about them.
Standing directly in front of the vanity mirror, Tamara stared at herself, taking a deep breath. Her natural golden blonde hair was a silken wave down her back. Her eyebrows, just a shade darker than her hair, were thick, fashionably so for this season. Her eyes, a unique shade of green-blue, were the same aquamarine of the sea, where she’d been born. Her frame was small but her breasts, pert with dark raspberry nipples, were a touch larger than one would expect on her frame. And at 5’9”, Tamara was tall. Men often said that it was a toss-up with Tamara Fearson, legs or breasts, for she had both in abundance; the siren who could lure both breast and leg men. Her look was that of the angelic blonde, a princess, and yet, as her success on Encounters showed, her public loved her best when she was playing a bitch from hell. Tamara stretched her arms high above her head, luxuriating in the feeling of her body being stretched almost to the edge of pain. With a series of deep yogic breaths, she slowly lowered her arms. Right on cue there was a knock on her door and Casey walked in, carrying her daily dose of vitamins and a health shake that had been specially concocted for her by her personal nutritionist.
“Morning, Tamara,” Casey smiled, placing the tray down on a table before laying down a stack of magazines and the day’s papers. Barely sparing a glance for her young assistant, Tamara moved towards the table and one after the other popped the large vitamin pills into her mouth before washing them down with the rather odious-looking green drink. Her assistant didn’t bat an eye at her nudity, having long since grown used to her tendency to walk around the house naked.
Tamara watched as Casey busied herself picking up the clothes that she’d dropped on the floor when she arrived home the night before. The dress was a green whisper of the finest silk, a vintage Tom Ford for Gucci original that would have to be sent to a specialist cleaner. The shoes – a staggeringly high pair of Christian Louboutins with the distinctive red sole, Casey tidied into Tamara’s shoe closet, alongside the hundred or so pairs of stilettos that were her trademark.
“Papers!” Tamara’s demand shot across the room and Casey immediately returned to read the morning’s headlines to her boss. Tamara watched as Casey nervously shuffled the mix of papers, magazines and the scurrilous weeklies, whose avowed mission seemed to be to shame TV stars by publishing unflattering photographs of them.
“‘Tamara Fearson dazzles in Dior.’” Tamara smiled as Casey showed her the photograph on the cover of one of the tabloids. The photo had been taken outside The Gilded Cage when she’d arrived for the Encounters party.
“Anything else?” she fired back at Casey, for her triumph last night hadn’t been at the Encounters party. It was the party afterwards that Tamara was most interested in.
“Well this one says…” Casey trailed off nervously. Just the week before she had been at the receiving end of a flying copy of Vogue when Tamara had learned that her young co-star Angelina Starling had been featured in the magazine.
“Carry on,” Tamara snapped and with a gulp Casey pushed on.
“It says, ‘The Botox has landed’.” Casey breathed a sigh of relief as a peal of laughter rang out from Tamara.
“Botox,” Tamara snorted, “if only they knew.” Tamara leaned forward brushing aside Casey’s hands to flick through the papers herself. And then she smiled as she finally found what she was looking for. On the cover of one of the tabloids – Daily World –was a photo of Angelina Starling, a rather tawdry photograph of the nation’s sweetheart, caught in flagrante. A shiver of delicious malice ran through Tamara as she stared at the photograph; careers had been destroyed by less. “Are there more like this?” She didn’t bother to conceal her glee.
“All the tabloids have picked it up,” Casey responded. “Poor Angelina.” At Tamara’s raised eyebrow, Casey quickly schooled her expression into a more neutral one.
“Well, that’s that for her then.” From the start Tamara had detested the young upstart, but the girl had gone too far. Bad enough that she’d been selected for a Vogue profile when Tamara herself had never been featured, but to refer to her as a ‘mother figure’. It was then that Angelina had sealed her fate. Nobody crossed Tamara. With a smile, she consigned her young co-star to the back of her mind and turned back to the papers. “Anything else of me?”
“Just this one.” Casey pulled out another paper and breathed a sigh of relief at the smile that Tamara bestowed on her. It was a photograph of Tamara taken the night before, not in the Dior dress that she’d worn to the Encounters cast party but in her second outfit of the night – the vintage Tom Ford, as she’d arrived at the launch of Imperium, the latest hotel venture by Russian magnate Vassily Romanov.
“Bingo,” Tamara said to herself, quickly flicking to page eight to read the columnist’s piece. Slowly, a wide smile spread across her face as she read the copy. ‘Actress Tamara Fearson arrives at the launch of Imperium. Moments later, she stole a march on all the socialites in attendance by convincing billionaire oligarch Vassily Romanov to leave his own party with her. Quelle scandale! We’ll be following this story with interest.’
If she’d been alone Tamara might have danced across the room. “You can go now, Casey.” With a quick nod, Casey jumped up, scuttling to clear up the tray and the discarded papers. As the door shut behind her assistant, Tamara padded across the room, sliding into a silk La Perla dressing gown. She felt the kind of giddy excitement that she hadn’t felt in a long time as she thought about last night and her meeting with Vassily Romanov. It wasn’t the first time that Tamara had targeted a man but this time she was serious. She’d been furious to learn that the Encounters party fell on the same night as the launch of Imperium, but having worked so hard to wangle an invitation from some high society bitch, she had no intention of missing the launch of the new super-luxury hotel in Knightsbridge. After a hasty change, Tamara had arrived at Imperium, a woman with a plan.
There was something about Tamara Fearson that made men want to beg. At first glance, she seemed an angelic blonde but they quickly realised that she was not one of those women who sought to hide her power. There was steel in her eyes. She was a woman who knew what she wanted, who took what she wanted without apology and what she wanted was Vassily Romanov. She had strolled into the room, uncaring that she knew nobody at the party, that this throng of Chelsea heiresses and Knightsbridge old money was far out of her social circle. She had positioned herself close to the private lift that she knew would bring Vassily down from the penthouse. She’d charmingly but firmly evaded the attentions of a red-faced Lord with wandering hands and as Vassily emerged from the lift, Tamara took her chance, knowing that once he got into the room, the Chelsea girls would get their husband-hunting claws into him and never let go.
Tamara moved forward, a glass of red wine in her hand. She knew at once that Vassily had noticed her. Their eyes met and held and she saw the flare of attraction in his eyes and also grudging respect when she met and fearlessly held his gaze. She moved purposefully towards him, marvelling at the fact that he was actually better looking than his pictures. He was tall, easily over 6ft with a powerfully built physique. There had been rumours and whispers circulating about his connections to the FSB and the Russian Secret Service but however he’d got that toned physique, Tamara was impressed. They would make a perfect couple, she thought, both of them so blonde and tall. She moved towards him, noting that others too had started to notice him and were already turning to make their approach. She did not stop until they were almost toe to toe and then with a flick of her wrist, she tossed the entire contents of her wine glass over him – watching as the red liquid spread across his pale blue shirt.
A shocked gasp echoed through the room. The live band came to an abrupt halt and then silence descended, only for a moment, before whispers began to spread through the guests. Tamara Fearson had just thrown a drink in Vassily Romanov’s face. Tamara watched as through the crowd two men in dark suits pushed forward, Vassily’s security, she imagined. With a smile of total confidence, she leaned in to him.
“We’d better get you out of those wet clothes.” She said the words without any doubt in her voice and she watched the stunned expression on Vassily’s face, the stillness, and then with a small almost imperceptible nod he turned, taking her arm leading her towards his elevator. They’d been followed by shocked whispers and as the elevator doors had whizzed shut, Tamara had smiled, a small smile of triumph at the shocked faces of the Sloanies and heiresses. She might not have their money or titles or connections but she had something that money couldn’t buy. Balls. And she always got her man.
“Now that you have me here, what is the plan?” Vassily’s drawled words intruded on Tamara’s feeling of triumph. She turned to look at him and then flicked a finger out to press the stop button, halting the lift.
“I hadn’t really thought this far,” she replied, surprised by how much his unwavering gaze was affecting her. “God, you really are beautiful,” she muttered already stretching up to pull his head down to hers. The kiss was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Suddenly, she felt like a volcano about to erupt and his hands were around her pulling her into his hard body and then lifting her off her feet until her back was hard against the mirrored wall in the lift. She felt him grind hard into her and then abruptly, he was pulling away.
“This is unexpected,” he said, his voice deeper and huskier than it had been moments before. Reaching back to the lift panel, Tamara pressed a button to restart the lift and then she smiled as slowly she began to unbutton his shirt.
“You really should change out of this, and go back to your party.” She watched his eyebrow rise in surprise.
“And you?”
“You’ll find me I’m sure.” And as the lift doors opened, she stepped out, immediately making her way to the fire escape. “I’ll take the stairs.”
Tamara started as she was jerked from her memories of the night before by another knock at her door. “What is it, Casey?” she snapped impatiently as the door opened to admit her assistant who was carrying a large exquisite bouquet of flowers.
“These just came for you.” Tamara smiled immediately, confident that she knew who they were from. She reached for the card, eagerly opening it and then she sank down into her chaise longue.
“You can go.” Tamara bestowed a bright smile on her assistant, waving her away, her focus on the flowers.
“Oh. Thanks, Tamara.”
As she watched Casey disappear from the room, Tamara looked down again at the card that accompanied the flowers. You owe me a shirt. Bring it to dinner. San Lorenzo, Beauchamp Place, 8pm. VR. With a whoop of delight, Tamara jumped up, ready to face the day on set. If she played her cards right, Vassily Romanov would ensure she never had to work again.
After a long soak in her antique freestanding bathtub, Tamara emerged to find Casey already waiting to wave her off. She would be late to set, but this didn’t worry Tamara unduly, she was always late and they always waited.
“Someone called Dom rang you. He didn’t leave a message,” Casey told her as they emerged into the sunny London day.
“Dom.” Tamara’s brow furrowed momentarily and then she felt a twinge of guilt. That poor mousy storyliner didn’t know what was about to hit her. “Oh don’t worry about him.” With a shrug of disinterest, Tamara walked towards her waiting car as Casey followed her, carrying her Hermes Birkin handbag and the script pages for the day.
“And Damian called, a sixth time.” At this Tamara sighed. Married men were the worst, so needy. She would have to end things with Damian. Ignoring Casey, Tamara climbed into the back of the black Mercedes that the broadcaster provided to take her to and from the studio.
“Bruno, darling,” she cooed sweetly at her driver.
“Morning, Miss T.” As the driver started the engine, Tamara took the script that Casey handed to her.
“Casey, talk to the phone company, see about blocking Damian’s calls.” Casey nodded; this wasn’t the first time that Tamara had demanded that the phone company block a caller. “And give William a call, tell him I need a dress tonight, something worthy of a billionaire.”
“Sure thing, Tamara.” But before Casey could finish talking, Tamara had already pressed the button to wind the window up and the car was moving off down the small lane, past the exclusive terrace of mews houses.
In the car, Tamara put on a large pair of Chanel sunglasses and leaned back, contemplating the events of the night before. She had been working for twenty years and she was exhausted. For now, she would have to continue to play the TV game but the future, she’d decided, was in men like Vassily Romanov; rich men, powerful men, the kind of men who could provide her with the life she had always wanted. Tamara had never been the kind of girl to wait for things to happen and she wouldn’t start waiting now.
Vassily Romanov would be hers, one way or another. And with this thought she finally picked up the script pages and began to memorise her lines for the day.
CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_55c47a06-1cd9-5a68-a3b6-2367263d0470)
“Oh my God!”
The squeal of shock laced with a building excitement pierced through Alex’s inebriated fog and he looked up to see two women standing over him, one slim and the other round and curvy. Alex had ventured out of the cosseted luxury of the villa to explore the surrounding town, eventually settling in this small bar, little more than a shack really, where local fishermen and Mexican families seemed to gather to watch cable television, smoke, drink and have dinner. There’d been few tourists to behold and it had amused Alex when one of the locals attempted to sell him a bootlegged copy of his latest film. He’d handed over a few dollars and bought a copy just to get the guy to leave him in peace.
These two women were the first non-Mexicans he’d seen in the bar since he’d been coming there.
“Oh my God.” The tall slim one breathed the words again, more quietly this time. “You’re Alex Golden.” Alex forced himself to focus on them and he readjusted his initial impression. They were young, hardly more than girls. The curvy one stood back, allowing her slim blonde friend to do the talking. Alex swayed slightly as he rose to his feet, with the trademark smile that he’d perfected over the years. He leaned close to the girl.
“Shush,” he said. “That’s our little secret.” The girl seemed to be holding her breath, her eyes drilling into him as they stood toe to toe. Alex stared at her flawless youthful skin. She was tall, he realised, able almost to stare straight into his eyes. He smiled again as unthinkingly he laid his hand on her shoulder, to give her a reassuring pat. He’d grown used to this over the years; young girls, women and sometimes even men, who looked ready to faint at the sight of him. Sometimes it still amused him but now craving anonymity, he simply wanted them to get their picture and go. The hand on her shoulder seemed to reanimate the girl and she turned to her friend and then back to Alex.
“Can we get a picture?” she asked. Alex heard the twang of the American Midwest in her surprisingly husky voice.
“Sure,” he replied, and the girls immediately stepped either side of him. One of the Mexican fishermen quickly obliged, taking the photo with a knowing wink at Alex that made him realise that perhaps he had not been quite as incognito as he’d thought.
“Thanks,” the blonde girl said. Her dark-haired friend smiled shyly at Alex, chiming in with her own thanks. Relieved, he sank back down into his seat, watching as the girls wound their way through the tables and chairs and out of the bar. He would finish this beer and then head back to the villa. But before he’d taken even one sip of his rapidly warming beer, he felt a shadow once again fall across him. He looked up; it was the blonde girl again.
The unfocused desire he’d seen in her eyes had crystallised now into intent. Alex watched her idly. She really was stunning. Her face was free of make-up and those legs, which seemed to go on forever, were encased in the briefest of khaki shorts that revealed slim tanned thighs. How old could she be? Youthful innocence seemed to shine off her but Alex wasn’t fooled, he’d met too many starlets, pin-ups and porn stars that channelled that same look. He watched her silently, curious about how far she would go. What had she done with the friend, he wondered? Slowly she leaned down until her chin was level with his and she stared into his eyes. No doubt she knew that he had a direct view down the thin white vest that she wore. He could see her small breasts, which hung free under the thin tank top. She stared at him and against his will he found his interest stirring. It was two days since Isabella had left in a fury, finally realising that she was on her way out. The fact that Page Six had run a story about his fling with her Pilates instructor had been the final straw. There had been righteous anger and indignation but no tears and certainly no begging; Alex admired Isabella for that. She’d packed her bags and simply left. Though he’d got the outcome that he wanted, Alex suddenly realised the truth of that statement that women bandied about: There’s no better way to get over someone than to get under someone else. Not that he needed to get over Isabella but being in this hot, steamy climate without anyone in his bed was a less than satisfactory outcome. He stared at the coltish blonde, watching the desire in her eyes grow.
“It’s not every day…” she pouted and then stopped, biting her lip nervously. He decided to take pity on her.
“It’s not every day…?” he questioned lightly, watching as a flush of colour flooded her cheeks. Their eyes connected in a shock of electricity. The girl took a deep breath and expelled it.
“It’s not every day that you walk into the man who stars in all your sexual fantasies.” She might not be an innocent but there was a nervous naivety about her that Alex liked. She didn’t do this every day and the last words had been whispered out in a rush of embarrassment. Her face was red, as though saying the words had over-exerted her. She watched him with a mixture of hope and fear and defiance and Alex suddenly wanted very much to see how badly she wanted to play. He rose abruptly and she backed away like a skittish horse but his arm shot out to pull her back towards him.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “We’ll see about turning some of those fantasies into reality.” She swayed close to him as though waiting for a kiss, perhaps to seal the deal. Alex stared at her pink lips for a moment and then he turned his back on her, hearing the sigh of frustration on her lips, knowing that she fell into step behind him. She’d get what she wanted and more besides, but only when he was ready.
Alex woke with the beginnings of a hangover as brilliant sunshine slashed into the bedroom. He was sprawled on the floor, on a thick rug next to the bed. He stretched the kink out of his neck as the night before flooded back. He moved gingerly as the girl next to him stirred before settling back into her deep sleep. Alex had been right about her, what innocence she might once have had was long gone and the wide-eyed enthusiasm that had bounced off her was probably brought on by her happiness at the good luck that had thrown her into the path of a movie star. Her name was Nikki, she was from Chicago and she and her friend, whose name now slipped his mind, were travelling after their freshman year at college. After her initial shyness, the words had tripped off Nikki’s tongue. She’d talked non-stop until Alex had shut her up by sticking his tongue practically down her throat. Most of what she’d said had left his mind even as she was still speaking. She was pretty, there was no denying that; almost model pretty. Alex rose silently to his feet and walked towards the shower. He wasn’t one for talking in the morning and he hoped she’d get the message and get the hell out once she was awake.
Alex stepped into the opulent shower, which Milo had proudly told him could fit an entire basketball team. He allowed the pulsing hot water to beat down on him and then he flicked the dial to cold, to pound away the hangover that threatened. These last ten days, Alex had drunk, smoked and eaten with impunity and he grimaced as he imagined what Seth and Maryanne, his nutritionist and personal trainer, would think when they next clapped eyes on him. The water cascaded down his taut, lean body, which showed little of the week’s excesses but merely OK was not good enough for Alex. For the man who had held the crown of People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive for three of the last six years, his physique had to be god-like. Alex switched the water off. Still naked, he padded towards the living room, drying his hair, when the sound of the television stopped him short. The friend, he remembered. He secured the small towel around his hips and moved forward to see that Nikki’s friend lay on the couch, the remote control in her hand as she zipped through the channels.
Last night he’d been surprised when she’d turned up after Nikki. Their intended guesthouse had been fully booked apparently, and Nikki had asked him if her friend could stay. Alex had briefly wondered if this was some sort of ploy that would end up in a threesome but the friend had disappeared into the living room and stayed there. Now she turned as she spotted Alex at the end of the sofa. Alex saw her eyes widen as she took in the brief towel around his hips, which left little to the imagination.
“I’m, I’m…” she stuttered. “I’m sorry if I woke you.” She flicked the TV off, looking anywhere but at him.
“It’sOK, I was up anyway.” Alex gave her a small smile, watching as she tried to reach for the blanket, which had fallen off the couch. Seeing her now clad only in a bra and a sarong, he realised that he’d misjudged her the night before. By Hollywood standards, she was big, there was no denying that, but rather than fat, her body was full and voluptuous like that of a pin-up from the forties. As though sensing his scrutiny of her body, she sat up abruptly, her breasts threatening to spill out of the plunging balconette bra, which barely concealed the heavy mounds of flesh. “I hope we didn’t keep you up, last night.” The desire to see her blush rose up in Alex and he watched as her cheeks reddened.
“It’s fine.”
He noted that she didn’t deny that they’d kept her up. He wondered if that was the deal; that she got off on listening. She rose to her feet and swung the sarong fully about her body, covering up those magnificent breasts much to his irritation.
“I guess you must get a load of girls throwing themselves at you.”
Alex shrugged. He moved towards the kitchen, hearing her feet on the stone floor as she slowly followed him. From somewhere in the room he heard the insistent metallic chiming of his phone vibrating. The girl cocked her head as she listened and then she reached up to one of the bookshelves, picking the phone up to hand it to Alex.
“Do you want this?” Taking the phone from her, Alex glanced at the display and then shook his head, depressing the call reject button.
“It can wait. Coffee?” he asked. She nodded as she reknotted the sarong around her neck in a style that cupped her breasts, crossing over her chest, leaving the rest of the sarong to fall to just above her knees.
“When Nikki wakes up, I guess we’ll get out of your hair.” Alex had barely noticed her the night before but now, objectively, he noted that she had a pretty face, prettier than her friend. The softness of her cheeks only served to accentuate the wide generous curve of the self-deprecating smile that she gave now. With some surprise, Alex noted that she wasn’t nervous with him. Cautious yes but she’d met his gaze head on; there was a confidence about her that was so often lacking in the women he met.
“So what’s a nice girl like you doing backpacking…” He trailed off as the snort of laughter escaped her and she covered her mouth with her hand. He smiled ruefully. “Can’t believe I said that.”
“A little bit clichéd,” she agreed.
“Right.” Alex nodded. It was, he realised in a blinding flash of insight, the first time in years that anyone had told him the truth. His usual crowd in LA would laugh at his joke no matter how lame it was. “I’m sorry, what was your…” He trailed off, embarrassed to admit that last night he’d been much more interested in getting into Nikki’s pants than in remembering her friend’s name.
“Oh right. Deanna.” She nodded, unsurprised.
“I’m sorry, I’m terrible with names,” Alex felt moved to explain.
“Don’t worry about it.” Deanna smiled at him without censure. “I’m used to it, people tend to forget everything when Nikki’s around.” She seemed genuine in her words and yet Alex felt like a heel. This girl seemed nice, real, and he wished somehow that he were a different kind of man, that he had seen past her lush, unfashionable curves and seen the prettiness in her face and the easy femininity. He wished he’d not fucked her friend in her earshot.
“Here.” Alex handed her the mug of coffee and together they moved back to Milo’s oversized white Versace sofa. “You two are at college together?”
Deanna nodded as she sipped from the mug. “Yep, I’m studying English Literature, with French.”
“Ah oui?” Alex smiled at her. “Have you been to Paris?” She shook her head.
“Not yet but that’s the plan, to go to Europe, if I don’t blow all my money here.” She reached for the remote and began to flick through the TV channels again. Alex shifted easily to his feet.
“I’ll go check on Nikki,” he said still watching her. She nodded as she watched the tickertape of reports that scrolled along the bottom of a news channel.
Something about her bothered him and for a moment he watched her, the sunlight picking out stray wisps of gold in her curly dark hair. It was a long time since any woman had spoken to him without an agenda, and he wondered how she and Nikki could be best friends. How two such utterly different people had come together. There was a quiet, wholesome caution about Deanna; she was the type of girl, Alex imagined, that one could count on. By contrast Nikki, beautiful as she was, simply wasn’t the real deal. Nikki was like every starlet, every model, every wannabe, every scenester that had ever crossed his path in his years in Hollywood. Nikki was one of those girls who played the game – who danced like everyone was watching, who fucked like there was a camera on them, who lived every moment like it was a money shot.
“What?” Her question broke into his internal musings and Alex realised that he’d been standing there staring at Deanna. “Is there something on my face?” She looked quizzically at him and he realised that he’d moved to stand almost in front of her, looking down at her. She rose slowly as he spoke.
“You’re a nice girl,” he said and she looked oddly at him, cautious as she stared up into his eyes.
“Some people say that nice girls wind up with nothing.” She said the words carefully, watching as he leaned in close and kissed her. She was still for a moment and then she pulled his head down towards her. Her mouth opened beneath his and she pushed her tongue deep into his mouth, even as his hands grabbed at her fleshy hips to pull her tight against him. His hand moved higher to her waist, which was unexpectedly slim, tiny even. He pulled her against him, grinding his erection into the soft curves of her stomach. His hands slid slowly down to grab and knead the lush curves of her bottom and he deepened the kiss. Even as he fell into her, surrounded by her unexpected spell, he felt her pulling away from him. He tightened his grip but she pulled harder and reluctantly he let her go. Now she looked embarrassed, her eyes darting away.
“Does it happen all the time? Girls falling at your feet.”
Alex smiled at her, unsure of what to say, surprised that she’d been the one to call time on their kiss.
“Sometimes. A lot,” he admitted wryly as he pushed his hand through his hair. She smiled slowly at him. “But,” he continued, “you didn’t fall at my feet.” Deanna stared unblinkingly at him before she spoke.
“Doesn’t it get boring?” She asked the question seriously, expecting an answer from him. And for the first time, Alex considered the question, he considered his life in LA, and for the first time in ten years he answered honestly.
“Yeah, it gets really boring.” Deanna nodded as though something she’d always thought had been confirmed. “But…” And now Alex trailed off. Deanna continued to stare at him, waiting for him to finish the sentence. “But sometimes, it’s just easy, convenient to say yes.” Alex stared into the deep brown eyes and recoiled at the pity he saw in her eyes. He was Alex Golden, superstar, who was she to pity him? And yet as she stared unflinchingly at him, he knew she had seen past the glamour.
“I’d better get Nikki, so you can get on with…” She trailed off, already heading into the bedroom to find her friend.
Alex watched her go and a wave of melancholy spun through him. That one kiss had laid bare the truth that he had so assiduously ignored. He was bored. He’d been coasting now for so long that he no longer remembered what it felt like to be fully engaged with anything. And more than anything he didn’t want to get on with stuff, not the way they’d been. Things, he realised, would have to change.
CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_830e4074-93f7-5357-817d-93aa2176a5fa)
“Jordan! Jordan! Jordan!”
The fans were chanting the name of their favourite character as Talia walked down the nondescript road, on the outskirts of London, which would take her into the studios where Encounters was filmed. The gathered throng of fans screamed themselves into a frenzy as a car with tinted windows swept through the gates and was waved through security. Talia tucked her ID pass under her shirt. Much as she loved the show’s passionate fans, who had made Encounters such a ratings winner, the last thing she wanted was for them to spot her badge and realise that she was anything other than one of the many drones that kept the studio running. In good weather and bad, there was routinely a hardy bunch of fans armed with autograph books and posters gathered outside the studio’s gates, waiting to catch a glimpse of the actors arriving for work. Though most were harmless, a few had on occasion tried to snatch passes so they could sneak onto the set. Talia ducked around them, not removing her badge till she was safe inside the gates.
“Hi, Wayne,” she greeted the security guard as she flashed him her staff ID badge.
“Good night was it?” He grinned cheekily back at her. Though he was probably the same age as her, in his late twenties, Wayne seemed to have worked at the Ashbridge studios forever and was something of an institution.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Talia replied as Wayne continued to grin at her.
“Saw the pictures in the papers for myself. Looks like a good night, if you know what I mean,” Wayne replied with a wink. “But nobody bothers to invite us poor security guards,” he finished with a mock grumble. Talia smiled curiously at him, about to ask him what he’d seen in the papers, but he had already turned to sign in another guest and Talia began the walk to her office, her thoughts turning to the day ahead and the rehearsal drafts and story documents that would have to be issued that afternoon.
From the outside, Ashbridge was unremarkable; a group of slate-grey buildings and a large car park that looked like so many out-of-town warehouses and factories. But moving further in, deep into the rabbit warren of roads and exits and corridors, you finally came to the beating heart of the studio. Anyone who thought working in television was glamorous clearly hadn’t been here. From the single-storey canteen building, the smell of cooking food wafted out but Talia wasn’t fooled. She’d worked here long enough to know that the smell was deceptive and that the food, when one was confronted with it, was little more than school dinners, unappetising and fattening. And yet the stars and the crew of Encounters were often seen tucking in at the tables in that old canteen, which had stood, rumour had it, for close to a hundred years.
As she turned away from the canteen, entering the long corridor that would take her towards her office, Talia slowed, taking in the photographs that lined the walls on either side of her. Many of them were black and white photos, from the studio’s heyday when some of the early classics of British cinema had been filmed there. Stars from the forties and fifties who would go on to conquer Hollywood were captured in these photographs when they’d filmed movies at Ashbridge. Beneath each photograph was the name of the film and the year of its release. As she moved forwards, Talia noted the years ascending and then the photographs changing from black and white and into colour. She stopped at the final photo. Her eyes darted to the name of the film, Hiding Places, the last film that had been shot at Ashbridge before the studio had been sold to television broadcasters. Though she had walked this very corridor hundreds of times in the four years that she had worked on Encounters, Talia had never stopped to look at the pictures and now her heart quickened as she looked at the still shot of a young Alex Golden on the set of the film that had made him a star. For a moment she was lost in the startling blue of his eyes. Even in a photograph, he seemed to reach out to her, dragging her in. Suddenly a door slammed and Talia saw that someone else had entered the corridor. Shaking her head, she turned away from the photograph and continued briskly down the corridor, putting Alex Golden out of her mind. By the time she punched the call button for the lift and then stepped into it, she was already itemising the list of tasks she had to complete that morning. Her latest story document would be going up for executive approval today and of course she’d be getting her promotion in the afternoon. Talia couldn’t wait for the day to get started.
As she took a seat at her desk, Talia sighed at the number of new emails awaiting her attention. Emails from costume, location, script editors; all with requests that were somehow pressing. By the time she’d sorted through the requests and demands being made of her, it was almost lunchtime. Talia looked up, surprised to note that she’d been buried in emails for almost two hours, so much so that she’d failed to notice that Olly the young assistant storyliner, whom she’d been training, hadn’t yet arrived for the day. Perhaps he’d drunk even more than her at last night’s party. She allowed herself a small smile, remembering Olly’s drunken moonwalk across the dance floor. Deciding to break for lunch, she reached down into her bag to grab her purse. The smell of the unappetising grub from the canteen suddenly seemed like exactly what she needed. As she unzipped her bag, the zip gave way beneath her fingers.
“Dammit,” she muttered, and then she shrugged; once the formality of her promotion was dealt with that afternoon, she’d head right over to the Mulberry store and treat herself to a new designer handbag. As she straightened up, purse in hand, she started as she was confronted by a tall form slinking into the office. “Christ, Ol, I didn’t hear you come in.” Talia stood as Olly shuffled into their shared office. “Bit hungover are you?” Olly nodded vaguely, not meeting her eyes.
“Yeah sure.” He leaned down to his computer as though checking his emails and Talia noted that his face was red.
“What’s up with you?” Talia asked, as Olly’s red face seemed to deepen even more. He sat down mumbling.
“Nothing.” At this response, Talia shrugged. Olly was often difficult to read and he tended to keep to himself, but his phenomenal knowledge of the show and his instinct for story more than made up for his occasional strangeness.
“Want anything from the canteen?” she asked and for the first time he looked her in the eye and Talia noted that he seemed anxious.
“Look, Talia…” he began just as their door opened to admit Dom, the AD from last night who had kissed her. Now it was Talia’s turn to feel her cheeks warm as Dom strode up to her already speaking, barely noticing Olly.
“Talia, look we need to…” Dom began and Talia moved quickly. The last thing she wanted was gossip about her spreading amongst the crew. She turned back to Olly.
“Let’s talk later, OK?” Olly shrugged and Talia resolved to get to the bottom of his mood later. But for now, she had to attend to some damage limitation with Dom.
Talia fell into step behind Dom, as they moved down the corridor that housed the editorial and production staff on the show. He seemed tense and awkward and her stomach churned at the thought that she’d have to let him down gently. She glanced sidelong at him; he wasn’t bad looking – slim and tall in the uniform of T-shirt, jeans and Converse shoes that seemed standard amongst the on-set crew. The blond highlights in his hair, which looked more salon-bought than sun-kissed, were perhaps not to her taste but he was a nice guy and for a moment Talia wondered why she had to turn him down. Perhaps they could be discreet, see where things went. She allowed this flight of fancy to carry her as she followed him through to the bay of lifts. As they entered he pressed the button for the ground floor, and Talia noted that his nails were clean.
“Look, Talia, we need to talk.” Dom spoke and Talia snapped back to reality. She wasn’t sure quite how she would cope with him declaring some grand passion to her. She’d never been good in situations like this, not since that first time aged eleven, when Ben from next door had tried to kiss her and she’d punched him and run away, ignoring him for the next seven years.
“Dom,” she started but he silenced her with his hand.
“Look, about last night, it was a total mistake.” Talia felt her mouth gape open; she’d not been expecting that. Dom ran his fingers through his blond hair. “I’m saying this all wrong.” He sighed a deep sigh, almost rocking on the balls of his feet in the enclosed space of the lift. “I need to give this back to you.” Dom reached into his pocket retrieving a mobile phone, which Talia recognised as her own.
“Tamara said it was just a joke…” Dom began but Talia interrupted him, still staring at her phone.
“Where did you get that?” Talia demanded as she took the phone from him. Her brow furrowed as she watched the mix of concern and anxiety on Dom’s face. And why was he muttering about Tamara, the show’s matriarch, queen bee and all-round nightmare to work with?
“Tamara wanted to borrow your phone, I didn’t know what she was going to do.” Dom was saying again but Talia had lost interest now. Men, she’d never understand them. As she stowed her phone away, Talia looked hard at Dom; she’d not been interested anyway, she consoled herself.
“Dom, you’re a nice guy, but we work together and I think we should keep it that way, OK?” With what she hoped was a firm but friendly nod Talia turned, allowing a breath of relief to escape her as the lift pinged its arrival on the ground floor and the doors hissed open. As she strode out of the lift, she heard him call out her name, but she kept on walking.
Talia wolfed down an unappetising and no doubt calorie-laden lunch while sat in the corner of the canteen, her head buried in a stack of story documents, barely noticing the frisson of gossip at the tables all around her. If she’d bothered to look up she would have spotted Donna Windsmere, the English actress who’d titillated in a series of farcical comedies in the sixties and seventies before reinventing herself in her late fifties and revitalising her career as the matriarch of Encounters. On the next table, she would have seen the hottest young soap actors the country had to offer. But Talia had long grown tired of watching the beautiful faces. She had little time for the actors and their daily dramas; it was the imaginary characters and the stories that she created for them which fired her up. When she’d first made it to the story office, Talia had struggled with the actors and their demands, their lobbying and jockeying for bigger and better stories that would propel them to the cover of the weekly magazines and serve as a step up to appearing on Strictly Come Dancing or Celebrity Big Brother. She’d quickly learned to be firm and they’d learned that she could not be bought. Now as she walked back towards her office, taking the scenic route through the car park and the gardens, in the hope of not bumping into Dom, Talia was startled by the sound of sobbing. She looked up to see Angelina Starling, the most popular new actress on Encounters.
“Ange, what’s wrong?” Talia moved forward, immediately concerned. Unlike many of the other young stars on the show, Angelina had shown maturity beyond her years, she approached her craft with unexpected professionalism and it was clear that she would probably go on to have a career outside the soap opera world. Talia had grown to like her and she moved to crouch beside the girl, watching as she rubbed her eyes rapidly.
“Nothing, nothing,” Angelina replied even as her eyes filled with fresh tears.
“Angelina, what’s happened? You can tell me anything.” Talia moved to put an arm around the girl’s shoulders but was surprised as Angelina stood up, shaking her off.
“I thought you were my friend!” The confusion in Angelina’s wide, tear-filled brown eyes shocked Talia.
“Of course I’m your friend. What do you mean?” But Talia’s question would not be answered and with a strangled sob, Angelina dashed towards her parked Mini Cooper. Jumping in, she fired the engine up, her tyres spinning in the gravel before she raced away. Talia shook her head; the day just kept getting stranger and stranger.
“Could you get on to research, what was the exact cause of death of Jordan’s stepfather in episode 467?”
Talia launched the question across the office at Olly who had just come back in from lunch. He seemed surprised to see her back at her desk and hard at work. Talia looked up at him; he really had been even stranger than usual all day.
“What’s up with you today?” she asked curiously. Olly moved towards her, hovering nervously and then he dumped a stack of daily newspapers onto her desk.
“You should see these,” he muttered. Instinctively Talia felt her stomach freeze.
“Dammit, somebody hasn’t leaked the Christmas storyline have they? Or lost a script on the tube?” Talia snapped. Leaks like these were the nightmare of all storyliners and she felt her heart in her mouth.
“Just read,” Olly urged.
Talia glanced down at the familiar red top of the country’s bestselling tabloid newspaper and she froze, her attention riveted by the blurred but unmistakeable image of Angelina Starling, the nation’s innocent sweetheart, caught in what could tamely be described as a compromising position.
“Oh fuck…” Talia sifted through the other front pages, which also carried the same image. The headline screamed out at her: Brief Encounters of a Sex Kind. “What a fucking mess.” Talia glanced up at Olly, who seemed to be watching her closely to gauge her reaction. “Where are these from?” she demanded.
“Last night, after the party. Someone took the pictures on a mobile phone and leaked it to the press,” Olly responded quietly.
“Poor Angelina, no wonder she was in tears.” Suddenly a thought occurred to Talia. “You’ve known about this all morning and you didn’t bloody tell me?” Olly paled but before Talia could launch into a tirade, the door opened. Talia went cold; it was Rick Cole, their boss and as much as a petite man with a taste for clothes in primary colours could, he looked furious. His skin, always red and mottled from drink and too much St Tropez tanning, was now puce with rage.
“Talia, in my fucking office now!” The bellowed words were followed by a sharply slammed door, which rattled in its doorframe and shook the awards hanging on the wall. With a gulp, Talia moved round her desk to follow her boss. Her eyes darted once again to the front cover of the newspaper. With a sense of deep foreboding she recognised that this day had just gone from bad to seriously worse.
CHAPTER 6 (#ulink_b08e49ae-f5af-5323-af1f-f39c5c48aaae)
“She’s fired. Tell her she’s fired if I don’t get a call back in five.”
Alex slammed the designer telephone back into the ornate receiver with a wince. He’d been back from Mexico for less than five hours and he wasn’t used to being kept waiting and yet five calls later, he’d still not managed to speak to his agent. In the ten years since she’d approached him, as he’d clutched his Oscar in his sweaty palm, Avital had been true to her word. She’d promised to make him a star, and a star he was. His face was plastered across Times Square in New York and on Sunset in LA. He’d had Royal Gala Premieres at Leicester Square in London. He’d broken box office records and had joined the elite rank of actors – Brad, Tom, George, Bruce – who were known only by their first names and who could command millions just to advertise beer and cigars in Japan. He’d become that rare breed of actor, one who could open a film. And yet doubts niggled at Alex as he lounged on the terrace, back in his multi-million dollar Hollywood Hills home. Since he got back to LA, things had gone from shit to worse. His assistant Shay, who’d been threatening to quit, had finally gone and walked out on him while he was in Mexico, and now Avital seemed to be sidestepping him. He’d resolved to call his manager Johnny, when he remembered that he’d fired Johnny and hadn’t yet got round to replacing him. Alex moved towards the golf clubs that he’d dragged out of the guest bedroom that morning. He tee’d up a shot, setting a distant tree in his sights when his phone began ringing.
“Yes,” he barked curtly.
“Alex, darling, why so brusque?” Avital’s New York drawl grated down the line and Alex was reminded of the sound of a cement mixer.
“Avital, darling, I’m not feeling the love,” he replied tersely.
“Oh Alex, you know I love all my children equally.” Alex gritted his teeth. He didn’t like the sound of that. The fact was, when he’d been her biggest client, Avi had lavished attention on him, but since a recent batch of new signings poached from a rival agency, he had sensed that he didn’t have Avital’s undivided attention the way he used to. Alex sighed deeply. He loved LA, had grown to love it, but days like today, he hated the bullshit and the fakery.
“Cut the bullshit. What’s going on?” There was a moment’s silence on the line and then the sound of a deep breath being taken. Alex allowed himself to imagine that he was just being another paranoid actor, that Avital would reassure him and they’d get back to business.
“Darling, the thing is, the studio are having doubts.” His blood ran cold.
“Doubts about what?” He barked the words out, any attempt at calm forgotten.
“It’s been a bad year for the business, sequels aren’t doing what they used to, the big guns aren’t firing at the box office and some two-bit schmuck from Wichita makes a horror movie with his ma and pa’s camera and takes home $100 million.”
“What does that mean for me?” Alex asked fighting to master the cauldron of rage and anxiety that was building in him.
“The thing is everybody’s being cautious. They love you at Centurion, but studios have been hit hard by this recession, no one can afford to take a risk and miss, not if they want to keep their job.” Alex gritted his teeth wishing Avital would get to the point. “Look, your last film under-performed, but who knew so many kids would want to see a 3D dog find his way home? Everyone knows that wasn’t your fault. I’ve got some great scripts and offers on the table.”
Losing patience Alex barked out the burning, unspoken question. “Avi, what about Defender, that’s my movie, I brought it to the studio, I got Milo on board to produce, I talked with Cole…” In Avi’s deep indrawn breath Alex knew he had his answer.
“They’ve decided to go with Max Maguire.” Avital said the words quietly without inflexion. “Alex, Alex…” But Avital was talking to thin air because almost without thought, Alex had flung the phone high and far into the air so that two streets away it clattered onto the sidewalk a mangled broken mess.
Three hours later, when a session on the treadmill and a round with the punch bag in his home gym had failed to diminish his fury, Alex drifted round the house, still at a loss about what to do with himself. Wandering through a kitchen that he’d rarely ever been into, Alex spotted a wine rack. He grabbed a bottle barely glancing at the label and worked the top open, after spending several minutes figuring out how to work the fancy corkscrew. He was tempted to hit a bar, but if news of Max Maguire signing on to do Defender had broken, Alex had no desire to be seen drowning his sorrows publicly. In LA there were always eyes watching. As he tipped the contents of the bottle into his mouth, he flicked on the television but as he caught a glimpse of Isabella on the arm of Max Maguire, apparently Hollywood’s latest ‘It’ couple, he snorted a sound of contempt. Christ, that bitch worked fast. Tossing the remote aside, Alex prowled about the house. He’d bought it two years ago but what with being on location and the extensive remodelling, he’d spent less than a month in the place and now he paced like a caged tiger, a stranger in his own home. In the home office, Alex powered up the Mac computer that he’d seen Shay working on, but which he himself had never actually used. He stared blankly at the massive screen as it prompted him for a password. Christ, how was he supposed to function? Fine he thought, he’d have to get Shay back.
All of his life, Alex had been good at coming up with plans, but his problem always came in the execution. He’d backed his black Porsche out of the garage barely aware of scraping the bodywork against the wrought-iron gates as he exited his driveway. He meandered around and around the winding hill roads for several minutes before the GPS finally kicked in and he found himself on Sunset, driving in what he hoped was the general direction of Shay’s apartment. With the top of the Porsche down, Alex allowed the cool night air to whip through his hair, the coolness awakening his senses, which had been dulled by his solitary drinking session. As he hovered at a traffic light, a girl in the adjacent car shot him an appraising look and then he saw her double and then triple take as she registered the face in the car next to her. Alex watched the look in her eyes, the lowering window, the offer that would be there lurking and even as she opened her mouth to speak, he’d roared off as the lights changed to green. Flicking the radio on, Alex rested one hand loosely on the steering wheel, the other hand running absentmindedly through his hair. LA was supposed to be easy, he thought. His eyes drifted to the groups of people walking down the sidewalk, queuing to get into the hottest clubs – Viper Room, Shadow Lounge, Galore… Everybody jostling for their fifteen minutes of fame. And suddenly he was assailed by a crippling fear – his fifteen minutes had lasted ten good years but were they now over? He’d always assumed somehow that the gravy train would continue forever, that he’d bow out on a high somehow. He’d never liked those slow death scenes in books that went on for pages, chapters even. He was a put-a-dog-out-of-its-misery kind of guy. But what he hadn’t counted on was this fear that now gnawed at him. He was Alex Golden, movie star, modeliser, screen god. He’d forgotten how to be anything else…
The shrill sharp sound of a horn startled him out of his maudlin train of thought and Alex immediately steered the car back into his own lane but moments later, in his rear-view mirror, he caught the flickering blue and white of a squad car and then the siren pulling him over.
Alex steered the Porsche off the road. Shit, he thought as he glanced down at the empty bottle on the floor by the passenger seat. What had he been thinking? He took a deep breath and prayed that he wasn’t over the limit, the bottle was still half full. Leaning his head back against the headrest, Alex closed his eyes as he waited for the officer to reach his car.
“Licence and registration.” The voice was low and feminine, sexy, and Alex’s eyes flew open to come face to face with a stunning cop. She was leaning down to peer at him through the window and from the look in her eyes, Alex knew that she had recognised him. “Licence and registration.” She repeated her demand with a knowing smile playing on her face.
“Right, I’m not entirely sure where… I mean I’ve not driven this car in a while…” Alex trailed off and shot her one of those boyish smiles that played so well with test audiences.
“Sir, do you realise you’ve been weaving across lanes?”
“I’m very sorry, I’ve been away and the jet lag.” He watched as her eyes darted to the empty bottle. “Seriously.”
“Look, I’m sure you’re just tired. So perhaps you just drive on to where you’re going, carefully.” Alex could scarcely believe his luck.
“Thank you, officer,” he said mustering up some sincerity. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Now she leaned back and Alex’s eyes lingered on the snugness of her uniform before he dragged his eyes back up to her face.
“Well, a picture would be good. My girlfriend, she’s a big fan of yours.” A girlfriend. Alex’s eyes widened with appreciation as possibilities filtered through his brain, then he caught the knowing smirk on the cop’s face and he forced himself to rein his imagination in.
“Sure thing,” Alex nodded, as the cop snapped a photograph with her phone. Back on firm ground, he smiled widely watching in the rear-view mirror as she walked back to her squad car.
By the time he finally pulled up outside Shay’s apartment, what little alcohol there’d been in his system had dissipated leaving him stone-cold sober. He left the engine running, looking up at the Art Deco block of apartments as it occurred to him that he had no idea what number Shay’s apartment was. But short of ringing all of the forty or so buzzers, he’d have to call her and hope she was ready to talk to him. Alex flicked the engine off. Then he groaned a sigh of frustration as he realised that he’d left his cell phone at the house.
He grimaced, unfolding his tall frame from the car. He’d already walked up the path towards the apartment block when he realised that he’d left the car unlocked with the keys in the ignition. As he turned to go back to the car, Alex spotted movement at the entrance to the building, a chance to get in. He approached the doors quickly as a woman emerged from within and a tiny dog on a leash immediately beginning to yap.
“Nice dog.” The woman, a petite redhead in a pink velour jogging suit, looked up at him and then a smile burst across her face.
“Wow, you’re Alex Golden,” she said. “Shay really works for you?” Alex loved these chatty types.
“Yes, do you know her?” He turned on the charm, giving the blonde the full benefit of his blue eyes.
“Sure, she’s right above me.” Alex nodded.
“That’s 4…” He trailed off, hoping.
“No, 5b.” Alex shot her another smile as he manoeuvered past her into the building.
“Thanks,” he called back over his shoulder.
“What the fuck?”
It was not the welcome he’d have liked but still Shay hadn’t kicked him straight out and he was sprawled on a tiny sofa, in her doll’s-house-proportioned apartment. Alex looked around, disconcerted. He cleared his throat.
“Shay, I pay you well, don’t I?” Shay padded back into the living room. She watched Alex, shaking her head with irritation and with a measure of affection that she couldn’t quite hide.
“Why have you driven all the way here in like the middle of the night?” She set down the steaming mug of coffee on a coaster on the table.
“You weren’t answering my calls.”
“Because I didn’t want to talk to you.” Alex looked hurt and Shay clicked her tongue until he cleared the hound dog expression off his face. She’d quickly grown immune to his charms in her first months working for him.
“What am I supposed to do without you? Everything’s fallen apart since you left.” Shay took a deep breath and tried to remember all the reasons why she’d quit working for Alex. “Avital’s screwing me and now Max Maguire has signed up to do Defender.” Shay sighed, as her quiet evening watching back episodes of Medium receded further away. “Do you think I’m past it?”
“Alex, it was one bad opening, it wasn’t your fault.”
“Is that what you really think? That I’m just being paranoid?” Shay took a deep breath as she weighed her answer. Sure she’d walked out on Alex, but she expected that he’d talk her round as he always did and she’d go back to work for him. But if she told him the truth now, she knew it might end their relationship. There was that mantra she’d seen once: ‘In Hollywood truth and business don’t mix’, yet even as she resolved to say nothing, the words were already spinning out of her.
“Alex, the films are shit and you’ve turned into just another Hollywood cliché – fast cars, fast life, easy women. It’s tired. That sexy English guy, that’s what we wanted and you’ve gone all Hollywood and not in a good way. Max Maguire is sort of you five years ago.” Shay took a deep breath as the words finally stopped tumbling from her.
“Don’t hold back,” Alex snapped and Shay sighed.
“You asked for the truth.” She read the confusion in Alex’s eyes and once again an overwhelming desire to protect him rose up in her. But she squashed it down quickly; she’d been in LA too long. She was 27 years old. Old enough to know that Alex Golden was no vulnerable man-child in need of her mothering or her advice even. He was The Modeliser; he’d be fine. Men like him were always fine and yet, as she stared into his troubled blue eyes, she wondered if the depths she sometimes sensed hidden didn’t hold more vulnerability than Alex liked to admit. Shay shook off the thought; she had to protect herself. If she stayed working for Alex she would never progress her career and would probably end up embarrassing herself over him.
“What do I do? Even if I wanted to, how do I go back to being that guy?” Alex asked the question quietly.
“I don’t know, Alex, I really don’t know.”
They continued to sit facing each other for a long moment as their coffees went cold. Finally Alex stood, his tall frame making her tiny apartment seem even more miniature in size.
“Will you come back?” Alex asked. The hint of vulnerability was gone, Shay noted, and now he was all business.
“I’ll think about it,” she replied and Alex nodded.
“Well, while you think about it, could you help me figure out how to access my messages? I had a little accident with the phone.” Shaking her head, Shay reached for her phone, quickly tapping in a number, and then when prompted an access code. She flicked the phone onto speaker, taking a sip of her lukewarm coffee.
“You have six new messages,” the automated voice informed them.
Alex dropped back onto the sofa, closing his eyes. Shay watched him, in the dim orange light of the room. How often had she fantasised about him being here in her apartment; on the sofa, in her bed. The convoluted, ridiculous scenarios she had dreamt up that would lead him to her, that would make him see her as anything more than his girl Friday. Shay was startled from her musings by the sharp English accent.
“Alex, call me.” The message clicked off abruptly.
“Shit, Helena. I’ve been meaning to call her back,” Alex said, slowly sitting up as the next message clicked on and began to play.
“Christ, Alex, call me back, it’s important.” Shay leaned forward and frowned. She’d rarely heard Helena, Alex’s sister sound so clipped. And yet beneath the formality of her stiff messages, there was a thread of something. She watched as Alex too straightened up; he’d heard the catch in his sister’s voice. Another message clicked on.
“Alex, it’s me. It’s Gramps. He’s dead. He died. Please call me back.” And then the sound of soft broken sobs before the message clicked off abruptly. Shay watched Alex rise to his feet; the colour had drained from his face. The easy grace with which he normally carried himself was gone and he stood like a newborn deer, awkward and ungainly, faltering. Shay was filled with compassion for him.
“Oh Alex, I am so sorry.” He turned away from her, as though looking around the room for something. Finally he looked at her, a bleakness in his blue eyes that she had never seen before.
“I have to go. I have to get to London.
CHAPTER 7 (#ulink_a52ce259-1f44-5162-938e-3035710e2965)
Shit! Shit! Shit!
Talia sat stiff as a board, her spine straight as she waited in the empty office for her boss’s appearance. Though he had asked to see her, Rick himself had yet to turn up and Talia stared stiffly around his office, her eyes darting at the papers and notes pinned up on the corkboard that lined the walls on either side of the room. As her eyes ran down the list that marked out when the show’s cast had holidays booked and the various shooting schedules, Talia could sense that there was trouble on the horizon. She could feel it coming, though for now at least she could not say for sure what form the attack would take. She might still be relatively new, had only been in the TV industry for five years, but she’d seen too much, witnessed too many long knives in action not to anticipate that something rotten lay in store for her. A painful knot formed in her stomach, as it did during moments of tension and stress, when suddenly the door was wrenched open and Talia turned to see Rick enter the room, followed closely by Damian Sanderson, the show’s executive producer. Talia’s stomach dropped further. Something had to be seriously amiss to rouse Damian to come down from his tower.
The general sense of foreboding that had dogged her all day now crystallised into something more certain. As she met Damian’s eyes, she knew with an instinctive sense of self-preservation that somehow, she was fucked. Damian strode casually across the room and Talia watched him fold his ridiculously tall frame into Rick’s chair behind the desk. Rick himself hovered uncertainly as he tried to figure out where to place himself in his own office. Rick finally dropped into a soft sofa, which placed him several inches below Damian and Talia watched silently as Damian pushed his jaw-length hair behind his ears. He stared at her, as though he was the interrogator trying to psyche out the perp in some police procedural show that was playing out only in his imagination.
Talia knew that something had gone wrong and somehow she was now in the line of fire but with the fear came an unexpected, uncharacteristic spark of determination; she would not go down quietly. She had never liked Damian and she’d sensed that the feeling was mutual. She hated the way he cultivated a sense of avuncular detachment, the way he strode through the department like some benign earth father constantly talking about his yoga sessions, his three children at prep school, his yummy mummy wife. Even as he continued to stare at her in silence stroking his ridiculous stubble, Talia was determined that she would not be the one to break this silence.
Finally Rick spoke. “Well Talia…”
Immediately Damian cut him off. Even though she was the one caught in the crosshairs, Talia felt a moment of sympathy for Rick. He was the backbone of the production team, he was the one who lived and breathed the show, but he simply hadn’t played the game as well as the slimy Damian. Now he found himself saddled with a boss who threw orders about and made demands but who had no idea about what production entailed or the ramifications and consequences of the pieces he moved about on the board in his tower office.
“Talia…” Damian said as he leaned back in the chair. He was enjoying himself. He let her name hang in the air and then he continued. “Frankly,” he said, “you’re in something of a predicament, aren’t you?” Talia let the breath that she had been holding escape her and suddenly a face flashed into her mind. Chris Priestly, her predecessor, who one day had simply not returned to work. His desk had been cleared and Chris was gone, never to be seen or heard from again. That was how it worked in television; like the Mafia, once you were out, you were out. You disappeared into the ether, into some unmarked grave never to be spoken of again. Randomly months later, during an impromptu break to visit her mother, Talia had run into him in a service station outside of London. He’d been gaunt, with a look in his eyes that had stayed with Talia, the look of a man who had given all that he had, the look of a broken man.
“The thing is,” Chris had said to Talia, “you’ve got to be in the driving seat. TV is just one big appetite, it will take and take and take, it never says when and it’s never satisfied. But at least if you’re going to crash and burn, make sure you’re in the driving seat, make sure that you and only you drive yourself off the cliff.” He shook his head with a bitter smile and Talia had watched him climb back into a battered Volkswagen before driving away. She’d watched him go and wondered what had happened to his BMW, which had been his pride and joy when he’d worked on the show. She hadn’t thought about that chance meeting in over a year but now his words raced back into her mind.
“A predicament?” She pushed the words out through dry, parched lips. “How do you mean?” She watched as a small sneer spread across Damian’s face.
“You’ve seen the photos, haven’t you?”
Talia nodded.
“Of course. But what has that to do with me?” Talia tried for directness even as something inside her died. So this was what Dom had been talking about, what he had tried to warn her about.
“Don’t play about, Talia, we know everything.” Talia watched Damian sit back with a satisfied sneer. She’d never bought into Damian’s act and the fact that she’d once caught him exiting Tamara’s dressing room whilst doing up his fly had cemented their mutual dislike. For all his talk about his kids and his yoga-practising wife, Damian wasn’t above fooling around with the cast. Talia turned to Rick.
“What’s going on, Rick?” Talia watched as Rick shook his head, a mix of confusion and anger on his face. Gruffly he spoke, barely meeting her eyes.
“It doesn’t look good, Tal.” He gestured at the collection of compromising newspaper front pages. “Big bosses are going mad, saying we have to suspend Angelina, maybe even sack her.”
“What’s that got to do with me?” Talia repeated.
“Don’t pretend to care now.” Damian spat the words out with irritation. “We know that the photos were leaked by you – the emails were sent from your email. You weren’t even smart enough to cover your tracks properly.”
“What?” The word exploded from Talia as Damian threw down a sheaf of papers on the table. She glanced down at them but her mind was a whirr of activity. She barely took in the text on the printed sheets of paper as slowly it all fell into place. Between Dom and Tamara, she’d been played. She looked up at the smug look that played on Damian’s face; perhaps he had also been in on it. Slowly the scale of the shitstorm she was in became apparent to her. “I’ve been set up.” Even to her it sounded weak and she watched the disdain on Damian’s face and the look of confusion on Rick’s. “Rick, I work harder than anyone, you know that. Why would I do this?” But she wasn’t winning him over, even in her daze she could see that.
“You’re out of here, get your things and get out. HR will ring you to sort out the finer details.” There was a note of triumph in Damian’s voice as he barked the words across the table at her. Talia sat stunned even as Damian rose, his job done. “For the sake of morale we’ll keep this under wraps, but you’re mud in this industry, don’t forget it.” And with that he strolled out. Talia sat frozen in the seat and then she heard a movement and turned to see that Rick too had stood up to move round to reclaim his seat behind the desk.
“I didn’t do this, you know that, you know me.” But all she saw reflected in Rick’s eyes was doubt and fear. He’d championed her, helped push her up the ranks and now he was afraid that her fuck-up might ricochet back on him and bring him down. Rick wasn’t going to go out on a limb for her.
“I need your key fob.” In a fog, Talia reached up and pulled off the security fob and ID card which hung around her neck. There was a knock at the door and Talia turned as two men from security entered the room. Men that she’d greeted every morning as she entered the studio. Their eyes were averted and they wouldn’t meet her gaze.
“You’ll be escorted off the premises and your personal things will be posted to you.” Talia felt a roar in her head, like the sound of a wounded animal dying as everything she had worked for was obliterated by the storm that she now found herself unwittingly at the centre of.
If it were a movie, the scene would have played out in slow motion. In the days that would follow, Talia would not remember the walk down to the main exit, she would not remember who had met her eyes and who averted their gaze. She didn’t remember what Wayne on security with the kind eyes had said to her as she’d stepped off the premises. Those moments after she was sacked were a blank. What she remembered was this – sitting on the train with only her battered handbag on her lap. The script bag, which she always carried with her had been left behind, she would not need it now. There was something almost surreal about the empty train and the sunshine that warmed the carriage in which she sat. Talia was unused to being out so early in the middle of the day. Usually she’d still have another four maybe five hours at her desk. She knew that by now passwords would be being changed, storyline rewrites would be beginning and even with the embargo, slowly the news would be trickling out that she was gone. Tomorrow, it would be confirmed and like Chris who had gone before her, stories and half-truths would grow and settle around her name to explain her mysterious disappearance. But what with the Angelina scandal on the cover of the papers and her sudden departure, it would not be long before someone put the rest of the story together. Talia sat in silence as a headache pounded through her head shooting needles of pain around her temples. On autopilot she climbed off the train at her stop, noticing how empty the station was. It was the middle of the afternoon, people were at work; she should be at work. A loud sob rose in her throat but she held it back and composed herself as she tapped her ticket on the reader and exited the station.
Without thought Talia headed towards Hampstead Heath, a long diversion through the park, which she rarely allowed herself to enjoy. The sunny day had brought the yummy mummies out in force and, barely aware, Talia slipped her shoes off and sat on the grass watching as super-slim women with Pilates-toned arms laughed and talked and rocked prams or kept one eye on toddlers running around. Talia put her head in her hands, as once again tears threatened. This morning her world had been on track and now in the space of hours, it had all fallen apart. For a moment she reached into her bag for her mobile phone and then stopped, remembering that her phone had been on her desk, it would be mailed to her. Perhaps, she thought, it was just as well. She thought briefly of calling Simone or Helena but dismissed the thought quickly; she wasn’t yet ready to talk to anyone. Anything she said would surely end with her sobbing on Hampstead Heath. Talia started as she felt the cold sprinkle of water on her bare feet, followed by tinkling, childish giggles. She turned to see a small girl watching her with curious eyes, a small water pistol in her hand.
“Where’s your baby?” the little girl asked and for a moment Talia’s brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of the child’s babyish speech and then she glanced around, her forehead clearing as she realised the reason for the child’s question and understood. All around her, apart from the occasional jogger, were young mums and their babies. With a small stiff smile, Talia rose to her feet; she didn’t belong here. She slipped her shoes back on and continued the walk towards the flat. As she made her way down the high street, her eyes were caught by something and her quick footsteps slowed to a dead halt. She stopped outside a small exclusive boutique staring at their window display. There in the window was the Mulberry handbag, the one that she would have been buying for herself this weekend. Now the tears came hard and fast, a tide that could not be stemmed. Pride and embarrassment were cast aside and Talia sobbed for the bag that she wouldn’t now buy with the fruits of her promotion. She cried for the script commission that was gone. She cried for the job that she loved and the sacrifices she had made as she finally realised that Damian was right, no one would ever employ her again. Like Chris, she was dead to the world of TV. Her career was over and now all she had left was some unmarked grave to crawl into.
Five hours later, Talia woke to the sound of pounding on her door. For a moment, confusion reigned – how could she feel so bad and where was she? She felt a burst of nausea and suddenly she was violently sick, turning only just in time so that the vomit was directed into the bucket that had been placed by her bed. The knocking had stopped and slowly the door opened and Nina entered. The look of sympathy that was etched on her face immediately brought it all back to Talia and in a flash, the crushing well of hurt was back. She remembered arriving home, having cried herself hoarse outside of the boutique in Hampstead. After telling Nina the story she’d drunk an entire bottle of Baileys that she’d found in the fridge.
“Are you OK?” Concern was etched onto Nina’s face as she moved into the room, coming to crouch down next to Talia’s bed. Nina handed her a tall glass of water, which Talia gratefully sipped from as she sat up slowly in bed.
“I said I didn’t want to be woken ever again,” she muttered as she set the glass down.
“Look, Helena called, something’s happened.” At Nina’s words Talia sat up straighter, the fog clearing quickly from her brain.
“What’s wrong?” Talia demanded, her own troubles momentarily forgotten as her thoughts turned to her best friend. “Is she OK?” Nina shook her head slowly.
“You’d better call her.”
With a sick sense of worry, Talia took the mobile phone that Nina was holding out to her. As she turned to dial the number, she caught a glimpse of herself in a small mirror and she grimaced. Her face seemed hollow, her eyes dark pools in her face and she had dark circles under her eyes. This morning, she’d had everything to play for and now it seemed that the old phrase was true: it never rained but it poured.
CHAPTER 8 (#ulink_ec5045ba-95e1-5aed-a9f5-fe24b671e784)
“If there’s anything at all that I can do for you…”
The flight attendant let the words hang in the air as she refilled his glass of Scotch and Alex was in no doubt that when she said anything, she really did mean anything. He slumped heavily in his seat thinking about the brief phone conversation that he’d had with his sister. Alex shook the memory off and glanced up, watching as once again the flight attendant cruised down the aisle past him. He noted that a further two buttons on her shirt had been undone in the minutes since she’d last topped up his drink and offered to tend to whatever needs he might have. Alex smiled at her, flashing the wattage, without any real intent, as slowly he reclined in the first-class bed and pulled his eye mask down over his eyes. He settled deeper into the bed and once again the phone call came flooding back. Since he’d spoken to Helena, he’d been to hell and back, beating himself up as he realised that once again he’d let his sister down. He should have been there for her. Only now, four days after he’d first spoken to Helena, did it occur to him that he should have flown to London straight away, that he should not have waited till the last possible moment before the funeral, before catching a flight out of LAX. Alex gave a deep sigh as he thought of Richard Golden, his grandfather, in truth the only father he had ever known. His Gramps, who’d first taken him to the theatre, who had encouraged him through the early years and the bit parts. Shit. Alex tugged the eye mask off his face and ran a hand through his hair. He grabbed his glass and downed the remains of the Scotch. He hated the maudlin thoughts that had been chasing across his mind these last few hours. More than that he hated the sense of dissatisfaction that seemed to linger all about him. His mind flicked back to all the messages he’d received on his mobile phone, condolences as the news had broken that Max Maguire was to replace him in Defender. This was Hollywood after all, and the piranhas scented blood in the water. He’d been replaced and by a younger model; these messages of condolences were little more than opportunities to gloat. Alex thought about Shay, who’d efficiently organised his flight. What would he do without her? And then with a heavy sigh, he realised that he would probably have to do without her, she’d not agreed to come back. For once, he’d been unable to charm her into changing her mind. He tipped his bed up into a seating position and glanced down the first class cabin, which had been artificially darkened to allow the passengers to sleep. The winsome hostess who’d been so eager to cater to his needs stood towards the back of the cabin. Maybe she was exactly what he needed. Alex was already out of his seat, prowling slowly down the aisle, before he could allow his brain to catch up.
“There is something you can help me with.” He leaned in close to whisper into the attendant’s ear. Her eyes lit up and Alex glanced at her name badge: Kelly – watching as a wide smile spread across her face.
“This way, sir,” she said with a wink.
Her moan was muffled and in the side-on reflection Alex could see that she bit her lip to keep from crying out. He looked away again; he had no need to see them reflected. It was, after all, a scene that he’d played myriad times before – different flights, different girls and different first class washrooms. Even in first class, room was tight, but nonetheless there was enough space for him to bend the attendant over, her tight skirt pushed up and gathered around her waist. He’d regretted it almost as soon as she’d led him in here. The grateful look of excitement had grated on him. His hands tightened on her bony hips and he thrust into her hard, his hand drifting around between her thighs to stroke her roughly, drawing her own wetness to her clit which he pinched gently. The loud moan that burst from her told him he was getting her off.
“That’s so good.” She practically squealed the words as she came, contracting around him like a vice, tipping him over into his own orgasm. He slumped over her with a grunt and then as his breath slowed, he eased himself out of her. She turned around to face him. Slowly she reached down between his legs, peeling off the condom which she’d provided. Almost lovingly she wrapped it in a tissue and dumped it in the bin. With a wink she smiled at him. “Like I said, if there’s anything you need, you just have to ask.” Alex gave her a small, tired smile. In the cramped space their bodies were crushed together, almost chest to chest, as she adjusted her blouse, rearranged her stockings and then straightened her skirt, smoothing it over hips as slim as a boy’s. “I’d better get back to work.” She pushed out of the bathroom, leaving him alone in the cubicle and Alex was filled with the sense that he’d just helped her tick something off a list she had somewhere. Fuck a movie star – Check.
He stared at himself in the mirror, noting the tired lines around his eyes and the beginnings of stubble. He glanced at his watch – only an hour till they landed. At least the diversion with the hostess – her name had already escaped him– had kept him from dwelling on what lay ahead.
CHAPTER 9 (#ulink_fc4091f9-c382-52ff-8693-459a97d378f9)
Helena Golden glanced at the understated Piaget watch wound around her slim wrist and clapped her hands together in a burst of irritation, the sound ringing out harshly in the silent room.
“I can’t bloody believe him.” The words snapped out of her, even as the anger behind them seemed immediately to dissipate. With a sigh she dropped her hands down by her sides as she tried to hold in the frustration building inside her. She stood still in the middle of her grandfather’s sitting room, taking long deep breaths, as she tried to calm down. She smoothed down the sleeveless black Lanvin dress that she wore, which was typical of her style, demure and understated and yet elegantly classic. There was something regal about her bearing, men often thought her remote, but as she caught a glimpse of herself in the large gilt mirror above the mantelpiece, Helena paid little attention to her appearance. Looking out on the grey day through the Juliet balcony in the sitting room, which opened onto a glorious view of Hampstead Heath, Helena’s eyes were drawn to the black hearse that waited outside the house, the hearse that carried her grandfather’s coffin. A tear gathered in the corner of her eyes but she wiped it away angrily as once again her eyes were drawn to her wristwatch. Alex was late. Helena turned as she heard a sound on the stairs and moments later the sitting room door opened.
“Tal,” she greeted her best friend with a weak smile, relieved that for now at least she didn’t need to put on a brave face. Like her, Talia was dressed in a sombre black dress and dark tights teamed with flat ballet pumps. Talia moved across the room and engulfed her in a hug and suddenly Helena felt the tight control that she’d been keeping on her emotions start to slip away.
“How are you doing?” Talia asked the question as they pulled out of the embrace and Helena knew that her friend was asking the question seriously, that she really did want to know how she was doing. Helena shrugged.
“The hearse has been round the block three times. Mother is not here and Alex…” Helena trailed off, swiping away tears with the back of her hand, still careful not to smudge the subtle eye make-up that she had applied that morning. “Alex…isn’t here, I can’t believe he’d miss Gramps’ funeral.”
“He won’t. He’ll be here.” Talia said the words firmly, even as inside she felt a spurt of anger at her friend’s brother. Helena glanced once again at her watch and then she turned to Talia with a small frown.
“We have to go.” Slowly Talia rose and, arm in arm, they walked towards the door.
Across London at Heathrow Airport, Alex emerged to a shock. He had forgotten how in England summer was simply a word to collectively describe the months of June to August and often had no bearing on the actual weather one might encounter. The grey day that met him seemed to mirror his mood and he buttoned up the casual Jil Sander blazer that he wore and strode, passport in hand, towards the fast-track aisle that awaited VIPs and movie stars. The immigration guy gave him a broad smile, glancing only cursorily at the passport, before saying, “Welcome home, sir.”
Alex acknowledged him with a small nod, aware as he walked towards the arrivals hall that all eyes were on him. Keeping his eyes fixed in the middle distance, never making eye contact with anyone, Alex stepped onto the escalator that would take him past the baggage carousels, towards the exit. As he approached the exit into the main arrivals hall, with every swish open and then closed of the sliding doors, a barrage of snapping flashbulbs would ring out. The paps were waiting. Alex stopped; he was unused to emerging into the throng without an entourage and he continued forwards cautiously, moving through the automatic doors which brought him out directly into a melee of photographers.
Usually he would have Shay on hand to lead him towards some waiting car but, still feeling the effects of the alcohol from the plane and the onset of jet lag, Alex was momentarily disoriented as the flashbulbs started up. Suddenly he was surrounded: voices rang out, even as the click and flash of rapid snaps blinded him. Alex spun round and in his head he cursed Avital, who no doubt would have had a hand in leaking the news of his arrival at Heathrow.
“This way, sir.” Alex gave a smile of relief as several burly Heathrow security men stepped between him and the wall of photographers. Slowly they left the braying group behind, eventually emerging from a side exit where a Mercedes with blacked out windows waited for him. As he settled into the back seat, Alex leaned his head back against the headrest, the beginnings of a hangover making his head pound.
“Where to, sir?” The driver turned back to him and waited expectantly. Alex glanced at his watch with a sigh; he was late.
“St Luke’s Church in Hampstead, please.” Ready or not, he was going to have to face them now, all those faces he’d left behind.
CHAPTER 10 (#ulink_51bb8ad5-13b5-5301-8096-09960f16cc09)
The church, one of the oldest churches in London, was stunning. Tall stained- glass windows allowed light to flood the space and ornate religious iconography decorated the walls but it was the people filing sombrely in through the open double doors that held Talia’s attention. Several times she’d had to force herself not to stare as some of the most famous English stars of stage and screen joined the growing group of mourners. Talia saw Dame Eleanor Samson of the Samson acting dynasty as she took her seat; behind her sat the Oscar-winning director Christopher Elgin; next to him was James Adebayo, the first black actor to play a Shakespearean king for the Royal Shakespeare Company. A cellist sat in an upper gallery playing a haunting lament that echoed throughout the church.
It was four days since she had lost her job, four days since she’d got the sad news from Helena and in that time, Talia had been thankful to be able to focus on her friend, anything other than the miserable state of affairs of her career. In the front pew, Talia sat next to Helena and she knew that her friend was working hard to hold it together. Talia leaned toward her friend.
“You OK?” she asked though she knew it was a silly question in the circumstances. Helena gave a small shake of her head.
“Dad’s funeral was here too,” she said quietly and Talia felt her heart go out to the young child Helena must have been watching her father’s funeral. Talia rested her hand gently on Helena’s arm, offering what little comfort she could. She glanced around again and her back stiffened as she watched a tall man walk up the aisle towards them. Talia felt indignation rise in her.
“What is it?” Helena asked worriedly. With both her mother and Alex MIA, she was already anxious and on edge, the last thing she needed was another surprise.
“It’s Grant,” Talia hissed back quietly and Helena relaxed slightly in her seat.
“I invited him, he and Gramps got on well,” she replied with a shrug.
Talia glanced around again, noting the petite blonde hanging on Grant’s arm as they took their seats. “He brought her with him,” she told Helena, making no effort to hide her irritation. Helena smiled and patted Talia’s arm gently. Though she had tried to convince her best friend that the break-up with Grant had been amicable, the speed with which Grant had become engaged to a young associate at his firm meant that everyone viewed him with suspicion. Helena glanced around, making eye contact with Grant. She gave him a small nod, noting that he was wearing a two-button Armani suit. He might have traded her in for a boring lawyer, but at least her style tips had survived. Helena allowed herself a small smile, when suddenly her attention was drawn by a commotion at the door. Helena looked down the aisle and stiffened.
“What is it?” Talia asked, squinting down the aisle, noticing that everyone in the church had turned to see who was making such a loud entrance. Talia glanced again at her friend, noting that the colour had drained from her face. Helena looked more fragile than ever.
“It’s my mother.” Helena said the words flatly and then resolutely she turned back to face the front of the church her face hard, as she stared at the coffin.
Sula Golden had always turned heads and even now at the ripe old age of 61, that hadn’t changed. Whilst Naomi Campbell and Kate Moss were little more than glints in their parents’ eyes, long before Linda Evangelista had pronounced that she wouldn’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 and way before the word Supermodel had even been coined, Sula had led the new wave of fashion models in London in the swinging sixties. Alongside Twiggy, she was an icon of the era, the original Supermodel. The image of her naked on a white horse riding along the Kings Road in a photograph taken by her then husband photographer Elliot Golden, before his early death, was an unforgettable image and even today Sula was immediately recognisable.
Whispers had started to spread through the pews and a palpable excitement began to build. Sula, who had taken up residence with an Italian Count on the French Riviera, was rarely seen on English shores and though tales of her escapades and her young lovers were splashed across the Eurotrash tabloids, few close-up photographs of her ever made it into the papers. Many suggested that she’d lost her looks, perhaps time had finally caught up with her. Some gleefully commented that maybe she had gained weight. But now as she strode slowly up the aisle in a form-fitting Balenciaga gown in an inappropriate shade of blush for a funeral, it was clear that Sula was as beautiful as she’d always been. Her skin was flawless, her blonde hair was caught in a simple ponytail and at first glance one might easily mistake her for a woman still in her early thirties.
“Darling,” Sula murmured as she reached the first row and bent down to air kiss a stiff Helena. “Poor Richard. Isn’t it terrible?”
Helena winced at the choreographed grief that her mother was channelling for the benefit of her rapt audience. Her mother and grandfather had never got on and Sula had severed ties with her father-in-law when he’d stopped her allowance. Helena was sure it would surprise many to know that it had been more than a decade since Sula and Richard had last spoken. But her mother could always be counted upon to show up for any event that might launch her back into the limelight. Reluctantly Helena shifted up the pew to allow her mother to take a seat next to her.
“Talia, darling.” Sula smiled briefly in greeting before her eyes returned to Helena, who stiffened as she felt her mother’s assessing gaze run up and down her dress. Helena steeled herself for the veiled insult that was sure to follow and which was their usual mode of communication. So, Sula’s next question surprised her.
“Where’s your brother?” At this, Helena bit her lip. The service would begin any minute and Alex, who was supposed to deliver the eulogy, was still nowhere to be seen.
“He’ll be here,” Helena bit back, not wanting to admit that the painstaking organisation she’d put into her grandfather’s funeral now seemed about to fall apart. Slowly Helena turned to Talia, who was gazing at her mother her eyes wide. Not for the first time Talia was struck by Sula’s exquisite looks.
“God, your mother looks amazing,” Talia whispered. Helena grimaced, even as she privately conceded that Sula did look incredible, in poor taste for a funeral, but incredible nonetheless.
“I think that modern medical science rather than God should take credit for her looks,” Helena muttered, an uncharacteristic show of bitterness in her voice. Helena saw the surprise in Talia’s face.
“You OK?” Talia asked her quietly, not hiding the worry in her voice. In their decade or so of friendship, Helena’s relationship with Sula had been one of their few no-go areas.
“I’m fine,” Helena returned firmly. Quickly switching subjects, she glanced to the back of the church again. “If Alex doesn’t turn up, I’m going to have to do the eulogy myself.” With a look of resignation, she turned back to the front of the church, staring straight ahead. Moments later, the priest accompanied by two altar boys took up position at the altar. As one, the mourners rose.
“We are gathered here to celebrate the life of Richard Golden…”
Throughout the service, Talia’s fury had been growing on her friend’s behalf. Though Helena had remained composed, Talia had sensed her tension, which grew with every moment as the time for the eulogy approached. Talia had met Alex, her friend’s older brother, only a few times and she hadn’t liked him much. He’d seemed to her to epitomise everything that she hated about spoilt celebrities. If she was honest, Talia knew that her dislike of Alex Golden was a little excessive. He was probably no worse than any of the spoilt egos that she’d dealt with in television, but she consoled herself with the thought that her irritation with Alex was because he so often let her best friend down. Talia had seen the disappointment in Helena’s eyes when Alex had missed her 21
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