Fame

by Tilly Bagshawe

  ‘I think your counselling session may have been cancelled.’

  Dorian frowned. ‘What? What are you talking about? What the hell do you know about my marriage counselling?’

  ‘I saw your wife tonight. At a BAFTA fundraiser downtown.’

  More silence. This time Dorian didn’t fill it, but waited for the creep from Sony to go on.

  ‘She was with Harry Greene. They were together.’

  Dorian rubbed his eyes. His head was spinning. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I was at their table,’ said Jonathan.

  Dorian tried to process this information. ‘No, that’s not possible,’ he mumbled. ‘Chrissie knows … Uh-uh. She would never date Greene. You must have made a mistake.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The automaton voice was back. ‘I thought you knew. Apparently, he’s asked her to move in. She has a diamond on her hand the size of the Hollywood Bowl.’

  Dorian was speechless. For a few seconds the line was silent. Then Jonathan Lister said brutally, ‘Look on the bright side. Your schedule just cleared for tomorrow. Mike and I’ll see you at eight.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘We had a deal, Mike. You shook my hand, in this fucking room. We had a deal!’

  Dorian could hear the desperation in his own voice and hated himself for it. All he wanted to do was to tell these two-faced pricks from Sony to go fuck themselves. But while there was any chance at all, he had to try to control himself. Without this deal, he could see his beautiful movie disappearing into the black hole of oblivion. He needed them, and everybody in the soulless, seventh-floor meeting room knew it.

  Michael Hartz shrugged with the nonchalance of a man who knew he held every last card. ‘Come on, Dorian. We’ve both been in this business a long time. When you get an offer like this one, it’s a game changer. It’s nothing personal.’

  ‘“Nothing personal?”’ Dorian wanted to reach across the table and throttle the bald, bug-eyed Sony MD until he turned as blue as his Ralph Lauren shirt. ‘Of course it’s fucking personal! Harry Greene’s out to destroy me. He started fucking my wife so she’d spill the beans on my agreement with you and he could use that information to fuck me over. My wife, Michael. How personal would you say that is?’

  The MD stared back at him impassively. ‘Greene’s given us a written agreement to deliver Fraternity IV and V on the condition that we do not distribute Wuthering Heights for another twenty-four months. The Fraternity franchise is worth, conservatively, over eight hundred million dollars, Dorian.’

  ‘Don’t lecture me!’ Dorian lost his temper. ‘I know how much Greene’s shitty movies are worth. But you signed a deal with me.’

  ‘A deal to take an eighty per cent revenue share in Wuthering Heights, and to promote and distribute it. Which we’re honouring.’

  ‘Honouring?’ Dorian spluttered. ‘How do you figure that? You’re sitting on the movie for two years. You’re signing its death warrant.’

  ‘Don’t be so defeatist.’ Mike Hartz smiled infuriatingly. ‘It’s a classic. People’ll still come and see it in two years’ time.’

  Like hell they will, thought Dorian. Even if, by some miracle, they did, it would be too late for him. Coutts weren’t going to wait another two weeks for their money, never mind two years. And of course he could wave goodbye to his Oscar hopes. Not just his but Viorel’s and Sabrina’s. Oh God, Sabrina. She needed this deal almost as much as he did.

  ‘If you’re not going to release it, I’ll find someone else who will,’ said Dorian defiantly. ‘Not everybody in this town’s prepared to bend over just because Harry Greene’s got a hard-on.’

  Jonathan Lister, who thus far had sat in complete silence throughout the tense meeting, suddenly cleared his throat. ‘Ah, but that’s the thing you see, Dorian. As you rightly pointed out, we signed a deal. We’re under no obligation to release you from your contract.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ Dorian erupted. ‘You haven’t paid me a cent. The contract’s not valid until you pay me—’

  ‘Ten per cent of the overall deal value before January the fourteenth,’ Lister interrupted, reading directly from the deal memorandum in front of him. ‘I believe those funds were wired to Dracula Productions … was it yesterday, Mike?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Hartz nodded callously. ‘That’s right. Yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘You bastards.’ Dorian shook his head. How could he have been so stupid, leaving a clause like that in the paperwork? He’d been so distracted trying to save his marriage, and so happy about the Sony deal, he hadn’t thought through the possible implications.

  ‘Look, Dorian, this deal could still work out well for you,’ Mike Hartz continued. ‘You’ll still get paid, eventually. The movie will show at Sundance as planned. And you know, if you don’t want to wait two years for a full theatre release, we’re open to exploring other options.’

  Dorian hated himself for asking, clutching at straws, but he had to. ‘Such as?’

  Jonathan Lister smirked. ‘Mr Greene has said he’d be more than willing for us to take Wuthering Heights straight to DVD. If you were agreeable of course.’

  Dorian stood up, shaking with anger. ‘Fuck Greene. And fuck you. I hope you rot in hell, together.’

  As he stormed out of the room, Mike Hartz called after him. ‘Like I say, man. It’s nothing personal.’

  Downstairs, sitting behind the wheel of his Prius, Dorian willed himself to try to think.

  Focus. There must be a way out of this.

  He looked at his watch: 9.17 a.m. Five o’clock in London.

  He called Coutts. It was a long shot, but there was just a chance … ‘Did a large payment from Sony Pictures hit my account yesterday?’

  ‘Let me check, Mr Rasmirez.’ The six-second pause felt like a decade. ‘No. We’re not showing anything on the system yet.’

  Dorian tried to contain his excitement. ‘What about today?’

  Another pause. Then the teller’s voice again, apologetic. ‘Not as yet, sir, no. Sometimes our systems can be a bit slow.’ The girl didn’t know she was giving Dorian the best news he could possibly have hoped to hear. ‘I expect it’ll come in overnight. Would you like us to let you know when—’

  ‘Can you put a stop on it?’ Dorian asked, breathlessly. ‘Can you refuse to receive it?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said the girl. ‘Not if it’s an automatic transfer.’ Dorian’s heart sank. ‘We can return the money once we receive it, but we can’t prevent it from landing in your account.’

  Dorian hung up. At least it wasn’t in his account yet. There was still time, but every minute counted.

  At 9.22 a.m. he was on the phone to his business manager.

  David Finkelstein was sympathetic but blunt. ‘It can’t be done. Not in twelve hours and probably not at all.’

  ‘It can be done,’ said Dorian stubbornly. ‘It has to be. If someone signs a distribution deal before Sony’s money hits my London account, I can save my movie.’

  ‘Dorian, listen to me. No one’s gonna buy you out of this.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because they’d be taking a huge risk, that’s why. Who wants to make an enemy of Harry Greene and Sony Pictures? No one, that’s who. And even if they did, they’d have to do due diligence, have their legal team draw up a contract. That takes weeks, days at a minimum. You’ve got hours. Don’t make an ass of yourself running all over town like a rat on a wheel. Don’t give Harry Greene that satisfaction.’

  Dorian winced, but said nothing. He knew David Finkelstein was right, but what was he supposed to do? Sit back and watch while Wuthering Heights died a slow, anonymous death?

  ‘Take Sony’s money and try to cut a deal with your creditors,’ said David. ‘I know it’s tough, but that’s the best advice I can give you, as your business manager and your friend. Chalk it up to experience and move on.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Dorian. ‘I have to try. I want you to get on the phone, David. Call in every favour
you’ve got, at every studio, big or small; independents, foreign houses, I don’t care. Get me some face-time with the decision makers. This morning. Now.’

  The sigh on the other end of the line spoke volumes.

  ‘I’ll do my best. But Dorian …’

  The line had already gone dead.

  His first meeting was at noon, with Paramount, the original underbidder to Sony.

  Richard Bleaker, the Head of Distribution, looked pained. ‘I’m sorry, Dorian. I’ve seen the movie and you know I think it’s terrific. Stellar work, super-commercial.’

  ‘So what’s the problem, Rich?’

  ‘You know what the problem is. Legal would laugh in my face. You really think Sony wouldn’t come after us? And Greene?’

  ‘But that’s just it,’ said Dorian. ‘If we sew this up now, they’d have no legal claim against either of us.’

  ‘Come on, man,’ said Richard Bleaker reasonably. ‘You’re not a lawyer and neither am I. I can’t do this on a handshake. It’s a mess.’

  ‘The paperwork’s a mess. I’ll admit that. But look at the big picture here. The movie’s gonna be a classic, Rich. One of the great love stories of our time. You’ll see, after it shows at Sundance, it’s gonna be huge. We’re talking about Academy Award-winning performances by two of the most bankable stars in Hollywood.’

  Bleaker shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He felt bad for Rasmirez. Harry Greene was a bastard. But he knew a dead movie when he saw one. ‘I’m not arguing with you, Dorian. It’s great work, I told you that already.’

  ‘And this is your chance to get your name on it. You’ll regret it if you let this go, Rich.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Richard Bleaker magnanimously. ‘But my hands are tied. I’m sorry.’

  Dorian’s next meeting, at MGM, was at 2 p.m. It was the same story.

  ‘We’d love to take a look at it. We’ll need at least a couple of days.’

  At 3 p.m. he was at Miramax, at four with an independent in the Valley, at six with the Asian giant Kunomo and at seven with Red Line Productions. Over and over came the inevitable responses.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s out of the question.’

  ‘We love the movie, but our hands are tied.’

  In between meetings, Dorian made repeated, increasingly frantic calls to Chrissie, to her cellphone, to the rented house in Brentwood, even to Saskia’s school in a desperate attempt to get hold of her. None of his messages was returned. Clearly, it was Chrissie who’d betrayed him to Harry Greene. She’d told Harry about the Sony deal and given him the leverage he needed to blow Wuthering Heights out of the water. The thought of Chrissie sleeping with Greene was still too much of a head-fuck for him to contemplate. David Finkelstein had confirmed what that bastard Lister had told him last night: that the two of them had moved in together, but Dorian still couldn’t quite believe that it was real. Was Chrissie really that stupid? Couldn’t she see that Greene was using her, for one reason and one reason only – to destroy him? Perhaps, if he could make Chrissie see sense, she could undo some of the damage. Persuade Harry to drop this insane vendetta, or at least to allow Dorian time to buy back his movie and make a new deal.

  Then again, perhaps not. If Greene didn’t care about Chrissie, why would he listen to her?

  Even so, it had to be worth a try. Only Dorian couldn’t try it because, not content with ruining his life, Chrissie was now refusing even to take his calls.

  By eight thirty, physically and emotionally exhausted, he staggered into Toscana on San Vicente Boulevard to meet David Finkelstein for dinner. His white James Perse shirt was yellow and soaked with sweat, and his hair was wild and matted from running his fingers through it so many times.

  ‘You look like hell.’ David Finkelstein passed him a glass of Sangiovese. Sitting down, Dorian took a long, thirsty sip.

  ‘I feel like hell.’

  David pushed a plate of garlic crispbread across the table. Dorian attacked it greedily, washing it down with the wine. He hadn’t eaten all day and, despite his mental turmoil, he was ravenous. For a minute, neither of them spoke. Dorian broke the silence first. ‘They killed my movie.’

  ‘I know it feels that way,’ said David.

  ‘It is that way. By tomorrow morning, I’ll have Sony’s thirty pieces of silver. It’ll never see the light of day.’

  The waiter arrived and recited the specials. Sensing his client was in no mood to make decisions, David ordered for both of them: beef carpaccio followed by a poached sea bass with spinach and garlic fries. Noticing that Dorian had already finished his wine and was pouring a second glass, he ordered another bottle of Sangiovese.

  ‘Look, the critics at all the private screenings loved it,’ he said, trying to think of something encouraging to say. ‘Who knows? If it goes down well at Sundance, it could be a sleeper hit on DVD. Stranger things have happened.’

  Dorian laughed bitterly. ‘Right. The straight-to-DVD movie that made it. C’mon.’

  The events of the last twenty-four hours had myriad consequences, none of them good. David was still talking, and Dorian tried to focus on what he was saying, but the negative thoughts kept creeping back in, like seawater seeping through the cracks of a slowly sinking ship. I’ll have to give up the Schloss. There’s no way I can afford it now. He thought of his father, of how disappointed he’d be, and felt sick. But that’s not even the worst of it. I have no assets, nothing I can sell to pay off my bank loan with Coutts. Maybe I should file for bankruptcy? he thought bleakly, although he had no idea how one went about such a thing. He felt as though he were in a mental maze. Every way he turned he faced another wall, another dead end.

  ‘I’ve let everybody down,’ he said aloud, although his blank stare made it plain he was talking more to himself than to his business manager. ‘My parents, Chrissie and Saskia, everyone who worked so hard on Wuthering Heights. Viorel, Sabrina …’

  ‘That’s crap,’ said David Finkelstein robustly. ‘Your parents are dead, Chrissie left you, let’s not forget, and your actors got paid. Right now I’d say they’re the only ones who’ve actually done well out of this whole fiasco.’

  ‘Sabrina didn’t get paid,’ said Dorian, absently. He was thinking back to last night, watching Sabrina on television proclaiming her love for Viorel to the world, and realizing with sickening clarity that he loved her. He’d been too busy today trying to salvage his precious film to give this revelation much thought. But it hit him again now, like an ice-cold glass of water in the face. Could his life possibly get any more hopeless?

  ‘How am I gonna tell her the movie won’t be released?’ he said aloud to David Finkelstein. ‘This was her big comeback. She worked so hard for it.’

  ‘Jesus, man, would you stop beating up on yourself?’ said David, taking a bite of the succulent, wafer-thin beef the waiter had just brought them. ‘You should try this by the way, it’s seriously delicious. Look, Sabrina Leon was on the scrapheap when you cast her. Now she’s halfway back to being America’s sweetheart. She’s gonna be the toast of Sundance next week, whatever else happens to that movie. She’s “in love”.’ He pronounced these last words as mockingly as two syllables would allow. As a Hollywood manager for over twenty years, David Finkelstein had an understandably jaded view of celebrity romance. ‘Sabrina Leon’s the last person you should feel sorry for.’

  Dorian ate his food in stony silence. Everything David said was true. But he knew Sabrina would be crushed by today’s news, as crushed as he was. They all would.

  ‘If you want, I’d be happy to let the cast know,’ said David, reading his client’s gloomy thoughts. ‘I’ll call a meeting at Dracula in the morning. Or I can call people one by one, if you think that’s more appropriate?’

  Dorian shook his head vigorously. ‘No. I’ll do it. But it can wait till morning. There’s someone else I need to talk to tonight.’

  Chrissie Rasmirez put her feet up on the antique French footstool with a feeling of deep cont
entment.

  This is right. This is where I’m supposed to be.

  As Harry’s interior designer, she’d already transformed the Coldwater Canyon estate that he’d picked up for the knockdown price of sixty-five million dollars back in the autumn. But now, as his live-in girlfriend, she finally got to enjoy the fruits of her labours. It was amazing what could be achieved, and how quickly, when one had unlimited money to throw at a project. All the gold and marble had been ripped out, along with the Liberace chandeliers and the Austin Powers shag-pile carpeting. In their place, Chrissie had laid antique, reclaimed wood floors, installed exquisitely delicate hand-made English taps and porcelain bath tubs, and picked up an eclectically tasteful mix of antique and modern furniture pieces and Persian rugs to brighten up the newly Farrow & Ball-painted living areas. The house had always been spectacular. But now, Chrissie congratulated herself, it was classy.

  Reclining in one of the overstuffed Ralph Lauren armchairs she’d bought last week, wearing a full-length, fire-truck red evening gown from Carolina Herrera, Chrissie finally felt she’d made it. Already the struggle and conflict of her life with Dorian was starting to feel like the past, like part of another life. And it was all thanks to Harry.

  Chrissie’s relationship with Harry Greene had taken off far more quickly than she’d ever expected or imagined. Of course, he’d been flirtatious with her for years. But once she started working for him on the house, things had moved from flirtatious to sexual to committed at an exhilarating, whirlwind pace. Even Chrissie had hesitated when Harry suggested she give up her Brentwood rental and move in with him after less than a month of dating.

  ‘If it were just me, it’d be one thing. But I have to think about Saskia,’ she told him, laying her head on his chest after another session of surprisingly erotic, athletic lovemaking. That was another plus about Harry. He had the sexual energy of a teenager, and was never so caught up with his work that he didn’t want to fuck. Unlike Dorian.