Taking Hollywood

by Shari King

  She slipped her number in his pocket as she whispered goodbye and then waved as he jumped in the car and drove off.

  Inside the vehicle, she was already forgotten.

  ‘All right, Romeo?’ To Hollie’s amusement, Zander actually jumped.

  ‘What are you doing here? Leandro, dude, I expected better.’ His tone was half joking and Leandro replied with a helpless shrug.

  ‘She called me and told me to pick her up on the way. I ain’t saying no to her.’

  ‘That’s because I sign your cheques, Leandro,’ Hollie added, with a wink he caught in his rear-view mirror. ‘Just remember that, dude.’

  ‘Oh, I do. Lost bad tonight. Any chance of a raise?’

  Hollie responded by raising the barrier that separated the front from the back of the limo, crowding out Leandro’s chuckles.

  ‘So what, babysitting me now?’ Zander asked her.

  ‘You don’t pay me enough to hang out with you,’ Hollie said, her smile softening the blow.

  ‘So that means there’s a problem.’

  ‘Good-looking and smart,’ Hollie replied.

  ‘What’s up? Another drug test?’

  ‘Yup, but not yours. The super in your building called tonight. Apparently there’s a teenager lying on your doorstep sleeping. I pay him a hundred a week to call me before he calls the cops.’

  ‘Good to know.’

  Years of acting saved him from giving anything away, but he desperately wanted to punch out someone at that clinic. What the fuck was going on with their security?

  ‘He described her and I’m no Charlie’s Angel, but it sounds like Chloe. He said a car service dropped her off. Of course it did. Kid’s in rehab, yet she can still summon a car. Gotta love LA.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, we’re either going to have to take her back to rehab again or to her mother’s house. I don’t know what shit went down with you two, but, Zander, I really think her family should deal with this. It’s not your problem. We can drop her over there. They live in the Colony and I’ve got the address.

  ‘So what’s it to be? Rehab or Mirren McLean? You decide.’

  Zander closed his eyes. Gently. So his head didn’t hurt even more.

  Shit, he really needed a drink.

  34.

  ‘Daddy’s Gone’ – Glasvegas

  Glasgow, 1988

  The nylon seam on her baby-doll was making her itch and leaving red welts under her arm, but Marilyn wasn’t changing it. No way. He’d be here any minute and it was his favourite – baby pink, so sheer you could see her nipples through it – and the little furry knickers matched perfectly. Not that they’d be on long. Three pairs he’d ripped off. Just as well they were only a couple of quid a time or he’d be paying for them. He saw her all right with cash, but that wasn’t the point.

  Pushing her feet into pink mules, she stood up and checked out the view in the full-length mirror that was stuck onto the teak wardrobe. Not bad for thirty-five. The negligee hid the stretch marks and the few pounds she’d put on over Christmas. Her tits, creamy and huge, spilled over the top, just the way he liked them. The back view was OK too – no landslide on the arse yet.

  The top of her dressing table was littered with bottles and jars, and not just to cover the ring marks that had been on this crap piece of furniture when she’d bought it down the charity shop. This wasn’t how she’d ever thought she would end up living. Potential. She’d always had potential. There wasn’t another girl in school that even came close to looking as good as she did. There was nothing she couldn’t have done. London. Hollywood. New York. And men with money were easy to find. All she had to do was hang out at the casino and they’d be round her like flies round shit. Made it all the more stupid that she was the one who got caught out. Some American in the oil industry, swore he’d had the snip. One weekend in the Excelsior Hotel at Glasgow Airport, a couple of hundred quid in her handbag at the end of the night. Not that she’d asked for it. That wasn’t her thing. It was a gift. A present for a good time had by all. Nine months later, the second part of the present arrived.

  If she’d realized she was pregnant before she was five months along, she would have done something about it, but hey. Too late. It happened. It just shouldn’t have happened to her.

  A quick spray of Dior Poison between her tits, a slick of lip gloss and she was ready.

  Grabbing the pink silk robe from the bed, she headed downstairs, careful not to put her glass heels anywhere near the broken steps. This house was a shithole, but what could she do? Her bloke had been promising to do something about it for years and she knew he would eventually. She knew better than to nag. And besides, when he visited, there wasn’t much time for talking. The very thought made her stomach swirl and her clit tingle.

  ‘Do you want something to eat?’ Mirren looked at her expectantly, waiting for an answer.

  ‘Nah, I’ll get something later.’

  Sometimes her honey phoned the takeaway for a special fried rice when they were done shagging. Didn’t want to spoil her appetite just in case.

  ‘You sure? I could make something?’

  Marilyn took a bottle of lemonade out of the fridge and banged the door shut. ‘I said no.’

  What was wrong with that girl? There had to have been a mix-up at the hospital. There was no way that kid belonged to her. Look at her, sitting at the kitchen table, all bloody sanctimonious. What a waste it was. If she made a bit of an effort, she wouldn’t be bad-looking. Instead, she pulled her hair back, no make-up, and always had her head stuck in a bloody book. What kind of life was that? The girl was never going to get anywhere unless she smartened up her act and found someone who could take her away from this shit life. And not one of those boys she hung out with. Screw one of them, fine, but always be looking over his shoulder to see if something better was coming up the road.

  The girl should just be grateful that her honey looked out for them, bunged them some extra cash every now and then, and one day she knew he’d make good on his promise to give her a different life from this pathetic existence.

  The lemonade fizzed as she added the vodka and then took a sip. She didn’t drink a lot. Just a wee sundowner to loosen her up a little.

  ‘Mum, I—’

  The sound of the front door opening interrupted whatever the girl was about to say. Didn’t matter. Her head was already back down in her book by the time Marilyn made it to the door.

  Showtime.

  She saw his grin widen as he spotted that her nipples had grown hard. That’s what he did to her. Giggling, she let him pull her up the stairs, but they didn’t even get as far as the bedroom. He bent her over the top stair and tore the pink knickers off her again.

  There was a loud bang and for a second she thought it was another stair cracking, but no. It was the banging of the front door. That bloody girl. Off in a mood again. She was going to have to cop on to the fact that no one liked misery. And if she was going to escape it, then there was only one way to do it. Marilyn McLean smiled and gasped as her honey demonstrated her point.

  35.

  ‘Tinseltown In the Rain’ – The Blue Nile

  OK, so now what? Sitting cross-legged on the bed in her hotel room, notepad out, Sarah logged into her laptop. Tapping into the hotel’s Wi-Fi, she launched the internet, then opened the top three celebrity tracking websites. She put Davie, Zander and Mirren’s names into all three. Nothing current. The last sighting of Mirren had been days ago. Someone had posted a picture of Zander Leith leaving Wes Lomax’s party, and a couple of grainy shots of him in the back seat of a car entering the studio yesterday. And Davie Johnston seemed to spend his life screaming at paparazzi and being abused at Lakers games.

  No help at all. Where were they today?

  She tried Twitter, Facebook and Instagram, running searches on all three stars. Again, nothing that could help her today, but hell, some girls didn’t hold back on the things they were offering to do to Zander Leith. And they didn’t hold back on what a douche Da
vie was either. Douche. Sarah said the word out loud. It wasn’t in her usual vernacular, but it certainly made a point.

  One of her legs started to go dead, so she shook it out.

  Come on, there had to be more than this. There was no way she was coming here and hitting a wall on the first day.

  Minibar, water, think.

  All she had to do was get in front of one of them and see their face when she asked them about their lives in Glasgow. Repeated requests for interviews had all been knocked back; there was no mention of any press conferences or junkets she could hijack, so she had to come up with another plan. So far all she had was a vague notion that she could find out their addresses and doorstep them, but there was absolutely no doubt that these three would have impenetrable security in place to stop fans trying the same thing.

  Another search, still nothing.

  Determined to crack this, she picked up the phone and punched in a direct dial to the one person who might be able to help.

  Ed McCallum picked up on the second ring.

  ‘Mighty leader, how are you this evening? No life, so still at the office, I see.’

  He laughed. ‘I have a life. There’s a bag of charlie in front of me and I’m waiting for three hookers I ordered an hour ago.’

  ‘Then I’ll call the NHS and tell them to send medical assistance urgently. It’ll be too late by the time they get there, but at least you’ll die happy and you’ll know I tried to help.’

  ‘Bless you. So how’s the holiday? Sunning yourself on a lilo?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘So where are you?’

  ‘Erm, I’m in—’ Sarah listened as he interrupted her with a hacking cough. Twenty Benson & Hedges a day for forty years had left their mark.

  She waited till he was done before deciding to change track slightly.

  ‘OK, so before your lungs give up, I need a favour.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Say I was in . . . oh, I don’t know, LA?’ she drawled.

  The guttural sound he made was somewhere between a laugh and a cough.

  ‘And I wanted some help in tracking down a celebrity. Off the record. Not on company time. Purely out of interest.’

  ‘I understand,’ he played along.

  ‘How would I go about that?’

  ‘You wouldn’t. You’d get your arse back here and get back to your proper job,’ he told her.

  ‘And if I was really stubborn and stuck to the contractually bound eligibility that states I’m allowed some bloody holiday time, would you have any other suggestions?’ she teased.

  Another cough/laugh. Sounded like he was the one who needed the holiday.

  ‘You would phone the LA press agency we use and tell them that your incredibly magnanimous editor had given you free rein to use them to help you along. Whatever they charge, I’m docking it out of your wages.’

  ‘Thanks, Ed. You’re amazing.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And if you’re still alive after the whole charlie and hooker episode, I’ll bring you back a present. Want a Hollywood sign for your desk?’

  ‘Don’t know how I’ve managed to survive without one,’ he told her brusquely, before hanging up.

  Sarah punched the air, then sourced the telephone number for the bureau and called. Someone called Gemma answered.

  ‘Hi, Gemma. This is Sarah McKenzie from the Daily Scot. I’m looking for a little help. I’m trying to set up interviews with Zander Leith, Davie Johnston or Mirren McLean . . .’

  ‘They won’t see you. They’re all on lockdown. Nothing until the next round of junkets.’

  ‘Yes, I get that. But look, do you have any visibility of where they’ll be, where they hang out? I just want to get in front of one of them.’

  Gemma sounded entirely bored on the other end of the line. ‘OK, hang on, what did you say your name was? Sarah McKenzie?’

  ‘Yep, from the Daily Scot.’

  ‘OK, I’ll just need to call them and verify. Hang on.’

  Sarah was left on hold for what seemed like ages. She was on the point of hanging up when Gemma came back on the line.

  ‘OK, Mr McCallum said we’re good to go and no expense spared.’

  Sarah’s fist clenched as she mouthed a silent ‘Yes!’ followed by, ‘That’s what I like to hear.’

  The open chequebook had obviously piqued Gemma’s interest too.

  ‘Is this, like, something big you’re working on?’

  It was the obvious question. There was no way they’d want to miss anything worthwhile on any of these three.

  ‘Nope, just background stuff. I want to talk to them for a tourism campaign we’re launching back home. You know, home-grown Scottish stars, big profile over here . . .’

  Sarah could practically hear Gemma yawning. ‘Cool. OK, so let me see . . .’

  Tapping of keyboard keys ensued.

  ‘Nothing in the pipeline for Mirren McLean. She’s in pre-production on the next movie about that Scottish dude. No engagements. Her kid is in rehab, though, so you might get lucky there. Life Reborn in Malibu.’

  Sarah already knew that. Nothing she’d been told yet was new – all of it freely available on the internet.

  ‘Zander Leith . . . man, he’s hot. OK, again, in production. Nothing released about his schedule. But I know he surfs at Venice and Zuma. You any good with a board?’

  ‘Only if it’s ironing.’

  Gemma didn’t get the joke and Sarah’s hopes were diminishing by the second. She was actually going to have to get out there and physically hunt them down.

  ‘And Davie Johnston, OK, so he’s got his thing tonight.’

  ‘His thing?’

  ‘Yeah, some anniversary thing with Jenny Rico. Can’t believe she’s married to him. Thought he was cute, but turns out he’s a real d—’

  ‘Douche, yeah, I heard,’ Sarah replied. She totally belonged here. Totally.

  ‘Let me look at the release that came in from his PR. OK, so, like, here’s what’s happening. According to this, like, totally lame crap, “Despite his recent troubles, Mr Johnston and his wife are fully supporting each other and he’s so happy to be celebrating the landmark event with his wife and closest friends at Soho House on Saturday evening.” That’s, like, tonight.’

  Sarah’s elation dipped. ‘That’s members only, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘OK, so, Gemma, I’d really, really like to get in there tonight. Is there a way to make it happen?’

  A hesitation, then a slightly reluctant ‘I’m a member, so I can sign you in, but I’d, like, totally have to be out of there by eight. You’re on the drinks and I like champagne.’

  ‘Done!’

  ‘OK, I’ll meet ya at reception at seven.’

  ‘Gemma, I think I love you.’

  ‘Yeah, I love me too,’ the other reporter laughed.

  At seven thirty, Sarah was beginning to get nervous. No Gemma. It happened. How many times had she cancelled plans because she got called out on a story or caught up on something in the office? Adrenalin and optimism were making her heart race just a little faster than normal. OK, a lot faster.

  ‘Heyyyyyyy!’

  Success. It could only be Gemma from the LA bureau. Grinning, and trying not to make it obvious that she was totally scoping out the new arrival, Sarah scanned her from head to toe. Long blonde hair extensions, 120 pounds, perfect nose, perfect teeth, incredible make-up and dressed like she was about to go to the VIP box at a rock concert. Impossibly tight pencil skirt, a killer silver chainmail top, bangles all the way up one arm and a Chanel bag. This was seriously high maintenance for, let’s face it, a day at the office. Even if the office was an exclusive LA club frequented by people she normally only watched while munching overpriced popcorn at the cinema.

  Sarah followed Gemma into the elevator which took them skyward, to a room with the most breathtaking view Sarah had ever encountered.

  At the bar, they both ordered champ
agne, and as she handed over her credit card, Sarah said a silent prayer that the bill would be less than the cost of the flight over.

  ‘OK, so I totally can’t stay long,’ Gemma told her, all the while her eyes fleeting across the room, checking out faces. There was obviously nothing that grabbed her attention because her gaze returned to Sarah.

  ‘So, a tourism thing, right? That’s, like, awesome.’

  Sarah nodded, suppressing the urge to bite. Curing cancer was awesome. Space travel was awesome. Her lie? Not even on the awesome scale.

  ‘You working on anything exciting just now?’ Change the subject, act friendly but clueless. She didn’t want Gemma getting any kind of a whiff of a story.

  ‘Yeah, that’s totally why I need to head off. I’m on this, like, really cool human-interest thing. Have you heard of Pete Barry?’

  Sarah nodded. He was an action star. Did martial-arts films where the bad guys always had prison tattoos and the good guys only killed twenty people an hour in the name of justice. He’d married a former child star just after her sixteenth birthday, with the permission of her mother, of course. They all belonged to some religious cult with a head office on a ship that was parked off the Californian coast.

  ‘Yeah, apparently the wackos have given them a baby as a wedding gift. Weird, huh?’

  No, not really, Sarah wanted to say. Compared to, like, aliens landing. Or superheroes. Or the fact that last week she was trudging through the wet streets of Glasgow and now she was sitting in an exclusive club on Sunset Boulevard attempting to stalk an A-list star. Not weird at all.

  ‘So, like, anyway, I have to go.’ Gemma was up off her chair and did a whole huggy air-kiss thing.

  Sarah experienced an unfamiliar palpitation of panic. She was going to be left here? She covered it up with a brilliant smile and an attempt at confidence.

  ‘Oh. Right. Well, let’s hope he shows up.’

  Gemma looked perplexed. ‘He’ll show, don’t worry. Give it an hour or so and he’ll be here.’