HOW TO BE FAMOUS

Lynsey sang along in her dream. Cocooned in a nocturnal fantasy of nightclubs and satin she was a disco superstar. Then she woke up and realized what she was listening to. Not the dance-floor classic but the synthetic imitation emanating from her mobile phone.

‘Hello?’ Her voice cracked like an adolescent boy’s and too late she looked at the clock on the wall. Too late because had she looked at it before answering her phone she would have realized that anyone likely to call at seven thirty in the morning was unlikely to be someone she would choose to speak to at that hour.

‘Hello, Lyns! Just wanted to catch you before you went to work.’

‘Hi, Mum,’ she croaked. She rubbed her sticky eyes and stumbled to her feet, plumping up the pillows she had crushed and smoothing out the creases on the Conran couch that probably cost more than she would earn in the next six months.

‘You sound phlegmy. Are you getting another cold?’

‘No, Mum.’ She put her hand over the mouthpiece and cleared her syrupy throat as quietly as possible. It almost made her retch. Thinking about the word ‘phlegmy’ didn’t help either. Who said phlegmy before breakfast? It wasn’t even a real word.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes, Mum. Still here.’

‘I wanted to talk to you about your birthday present. Now I know you said you wanted some bed linen, did you mean a duvet cover? I was looking at some in Auntie Pat’s catalogue…’

Lynsey’s mind caught up with her body. Her spirits sank as she looked around her, forced to accept that she had woken up in her office for the second time this week. Not strictly her office, more the inner sanctum where her boss worked; he was the one with the couch, but she could see her desk from here. Not for the first time she wondered why she bothered to spend half her scant pay cheque on London rent when she spent the huge majority of her life in the office. Was it not enough she was here for twelve or thirteen hours every day? Now it was nights too? She should be at home with an extra hour’s sleep and a proper pillow, but because a cab was always too expensive and a night bus was always too unthink-ably awful she was here. Again. And she had meant to go home, she really had. She hadn’t even meant to stay that long at the afterparty but time seemed to contract until hours went speeding by like express trains. Next thing she knew it was three in the morning, she had consumed alcohol on an empty stomach and the idea of the couch, the wide, luxurious couch that, let’s face it, probably had better support than her ailing mattress – well, the thought of the couch just around the corner had been too much to resist.

Lynsey walked over to the window. Today she lived in Soho.

She recalled the events of the previous evening like cinematic flashbacks. There had been champagne, of that she was certain, perhaps a little too much. She had danced. She had danced standing on a chair. She’d had a long rambling conversation with a stranger all about herself, about her dream of living by the sea and her fervent hopes for the future. She cringed and hoped she hadn’t embarrassed herself.

‘So what do you think?’

Oh no. Mum. Still talking. Waiting for an answer. ‘Um, lovely,’ said Lynsey.

‘And when should I get them to send it? Days are no good, are they? Unless it’s this time, but I don’t know if they’d deliver this early, what about the evening? But you’re going out, I suppose, on your actual birthday, so what about the day before? Are you going out?’

‘When?’

‘On your birthday. Are you going out on your birthday?’

‘What?’ said Lynsey, shaking the sleep from her head and sending the faint whisper of a headache through her temples. ‘My birthday’s not for another month.’

‘So?’

‘So I haven’t decided. Probably. Probably I’ll go out on my birthday.’

Lynsey didn’t encourage planning. She found that the more plans you made the more room there was for something to throw you off track, to get you doubting your course. Less thought, more action. Split-second decisions were life’s elixir. No, on the whole, planning was not encouraged.

Her mum launched into her proverbial lecture about the lack of responsibility and structure in Lynsey’s perfect world. The words were different but the message was always the same. What are you doing with your life? When are you going to settle down? We don’t understand how you can live like this. We worry.

Too late Lynsey knew that she should have simply said yes. Yes, Mum, I’ll be going out on my birthday with a bunch of friends I’ve just invented to a restaurant I’ve just made up and I even know what I’m going to wear. But she hadn’t said yes and now she had two options. She could defend herself and get into an argument before eight o’clock in the morning or she could take it on the chin, absorb the pressure until her mother ran out of steam. Hopefully it would all be over soon.

Her mum ripped through Lynsey’s lifestyle like a hurricane, her miserable flatshare and her job that didn’t even sound like a real job. She complained that it was too long since Lynsey’s last visit and even longer since Lynsey’s last boyfriend.

Lynsey could have tried to explain how she was hardly ever in her flat and how she absolutely loved her job and how Manchester was just too far away for one night and how she was finally, after futile years of quiet desperation, truly happy to be single. But Lynsey had tried to explain so many times before that she knew it would be quicker and less painful to ride out the storm. So instead she stretched out each of her limbs in turn, checking for drunken bruises of which there were none. A fruit smoothie would take care of her head.

‘And this call is costing a fortune. Why don’t you get a landline? We’re not made of money. I can never talk to you for more than ten minutes at a time.’

Think you just answered your own question there, Ma.

The warm spray of the shower soaked her short blonde hair as she scrubbed off last night’s make-up. She noticed that her tan was beginning to fade. It was time to fabricate a dental appointment and get misted. Seven seconds to transform a deathly pale into a healthy glow. Fake tan was the new fresh air.

Lynsey worked for London’s most ferocious talent agent, Jim Taylor, at CMG London. A glorified recruitment agency for the showbiz set. Jim had four assistants and Lynsey was unlucky number four, which basically meant that as well as putting up with Jim’s irrational temper she had his three bitchy sidekicks to deal with. Sometimes Lynsey would get a sense of how easily she could slip into being bitch number four and had to fight the impulse to dispense with polite but unnecessary words just to save time. Bitch number one, Stuart, a camp would-be actor who considered himself above all menial tasks, laughed when she said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and told her to toughen up.

The bitches weren’t all bad, just different. She had never met anyone like them before. They were fascinating. The most intriguing thing about them all was their blasé attitude to the glamour their jobs gave their lives. Sometimes Alice, bitch number two, a terribly ambitious trust-fund type, said she’d had enough, the stress wasn’t worth it and pointed at the frown line between her eyebrows as evidence. This happened frequently. Alice loved to complain. At these times Lynsey wanted to shake Alice’s head to force her eyes open and make her see how lucky she was. How being stressed over flights to Cannes had to be a better deal than being stressed when the economy took a dive or when the queue at your supermarket check-out was getting out of hand. Lynsey wondered if she would ever become so nonchalant. Alice could spot an Oscar-winning actress walking down the corridor at CMG and not even look over to see what she was wearing. Meanwhile Lynsey would suddenly find a reason to leave her desk just to be able to exchange smiles with a real live movie star. It was fun. She loved that it was a job requirement to keep up with gossip and rumour. If an actress was pregnant it could impact on another deal; if a big American actor signed up for a particular picture it would suddenly become a hot project. When it came to lifestyles of the rich and famous Lynsey knew no shame. Yes, she read Screen International now, but she would always read the back page first. As fat as Lynsey was concerned it was only the glamour that made the paperwork worth it. It certainly wasn’t the money.

When Lynsey first started at CMG she had thought it was odd but generous that the office had laundry facilities; now she realized that if it didn’t she would never have the time to do laundry in her seventy-hour week and the CMG bosses were just ensuring that their staff were well presented. She had thought the same about the fabulous coffee. Now she was addicted to caffeine and hadn’t eaten breakfast at home in four months. It helped with the early starts.

Fiona, bitch number three and not really a bitch at all but give her time, was the first in. She smiled and said hello and gave Lynsey a croissant, making Lynsey feel immediately guilty for the bitch-number-three tag. Strikingly beautiful with a glossy mane of blonde hair, Fiona made Lynsey regret her bleached blonde crop on a daily basis. She tugged at her wispy fringe. Maybe it was time to dye it once more; she’d flirted with black last month and it hadn’t worked out… maybe a softer brown with red highlights? If she only had the patience she would grow it long again. She opened her notebook and began making a list of tasks for the day. At the top she wrote ‘hair dye’.

Alice arrived half an hour later, screaming into her hands-free mobile phone, the discreet earpiece making it look as though she was screaming at herself. Stuart was late as usual. His wide pupils and manic greeting made Lynsey wonder if he had even been home. Finally Jim Taylor arrived. You could hear him coming. If he wasn’t bellowing at someone important at the other end of the line he was bellowing at someone decidedly unimportant who was unfortunate enough to get in his way. He was an extremely ugly man. He must have been terrorized at school and that was why he had turned out to be such a bully.

‘List! List! List!’

Jim had a list of numbers he had to call each day. The list was the most important piece of paper in the office. Jim had left it in a cab once and almost had a breakdown. Every night Stuart updated the list, carrying over the calls he hadn’t reached, adding new ones. This was Jim’s way of asking for it.

Stuart, Fiona and Alice followed Jim into his office and shut the door, leaving Lynsey to answer the calls and take their messages. This was the routine. In an hour or less they’d emerge and bark orders at Lynsey one by one, giving her enough work for two days in addition to all the uninspiring press requests she handled that already took her a normal eight-hour day.

The only time Jim spoke to her was to demand something and she was always eager to please. Staff turnover at CMG was notoriously high and all the assistants knew when they arrived at work each morning that any day could be their last. No notice, no warning, no pay-off, just go. Lynsey didn’t want to lose her job. It was the best thing that had ever happened to her. London and the film industry were like a dream come true. And she was good at it. She had been here almost a year and that was a long time for a slightly forgetful girl from the north. She wanted to work hard, learn a lot and go to as many parties as she could gatecrash. The standard of these parties could be ridiculously high. In the last month alone she had eaten caviar off an ice sculpture, drunk passion fruit champagne cocktails and eaten her first oyster.

Yesterday she had received her first official party invitation. This envelope was actually addressed to her as opposed to her usual method of entry: giving a fake RSVP for some out-of-town celebrity and pocketing the subsequent ticket as she opened the mail. All the assistants did it, even the three glamour pusses she worked with. In fact, they had been known to suck up to Lynsey because she handled press and mail and so was always the first to know. Once she had persuaded olive-skinned Stuart to pretend he was Rutger Hauer so that she could be his plus one at the afterparty for some premiere.

Seeing her own name on an invitation made her feel like she was special. Even if it was just a crappy chat-show launch that would probably mean zero celebrity count and a pay bar.

Jim knocked loudly on the window that separated him from her office. He beckoned for her to come in.

‘We’re all off at one, remember? The company lunch. If anyone important calls then tell them I’ll call them back this evening. Everyone else can fuck off.’

Jim was a very direct communicator. He didn’t believe in unnecessary words. As a result the office was not the kind of place you’d want your grandmother to visit, but at least you knew exactly where you stood. This was one of the things that made Jim Taylor the very best in London.

The company lunch was one party that Lynsey couldn’t gatecrash. Someone had to watch the phones. Everyone acted like it was a grave responsibility and one that Lynsey should be terrified of facing. She was looking forward to the peace and quiet. How hard could it be to take a few messages?

‘But if Bob Rosenburg calls then interrupt me,’ said Jim.

One of his clients, Melanie Chaplin, had been cast in a movie that Bob was producing and ever since then Jim had been desperate to speak to him and make nice. A potential new friend in a powerful place if he could just get his calls returned. He had left word twice and heard nothing. He didn’t want to call again in case he looked needy. For such a powerful man Jim was surprisingly paranoid.

Melanie Chaplin was one of Lynsey’s favourite clients. Low maintenance and very talented. The best combination. It also helped that Melanie remembered her name. Sometimes Jim couldn’t even manage that.

‘If you can’t get the mobile then call the Groucho and have them get me, if you can’t get the Groucho then come and get me yourself, I don’t care, but if Bob Rosenburg calls you get me. Okay?’

A hush descended over the office. The usual dramas and tantrums were noticeable in their absence. Lynsey looked over at another junior assistant across the corridor. There was a moment of understanding and a smile. If only every day could be like this.

‘Bob Rosenburg for Jim.’

Lynsey winced. That figured.

A gust of wind blew open the ineffectual plastic window and as Melanie crossed the trailer to fasten it closed she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair, styled that morning, had relaxed out of sleek waves into a frizzy mess, shrinking off her shoulders and getting in her eyes. An insect bite on her face had forced its way through make-up and stood out proudly. Some movie star. She heard someone curse in a broad Australian accent. There were human sounds all around her and apart from the oppressive heat she could be on location anywhere in the world. She had been cocooned in this eight-by-ten trailer for two hours with only her thoughts for company.

This was it. This was her break. A proper role in a proper movie. Not just any movie, but a Bob Rosenburg movie. Directed by Davey Black. And to think, she had only had to wait twelve years since leaving drama school. The break made her nervous. Melanie liked to think that she was a very calm, centred person but really she was frequently adrift. She gave the impression to outsiders that she was incredibly together while in actual fact the strings of her life were always taut with tension and if one string broke then the whole cat’s cradle would fall apart. She tried to think of something other than the weight of expectation upon her.

Melanie had heard that Davey was in town casting his debut feature, meeting with the usual suspects and fending off the overenthusiastic agents and the fawning producers who all wanted to work with him. There was a rumour at the intermission that Davey was in the audience and the cast speculated on which one of them had caught his eye. When Davey asked for Melanie she was surprised and excited.

She glanced in the mirror, glad she had worn one of the few designer outfits she owned just in case he was a label man. She tied an abundance of hair firmly back from her face and wiped the last of the stage makeup from her skin, leaving her face bare to breathe. She looked in the mirror again; her green-flecked eyes danced with anticipation and cleansing her face had given her usually pale cheeks a natural flush. She brushed her teeth twice and tried not to panic.

Davey Black looked older than she expected, though his silver thatch of prematurely grey hair was mainly responsible. He could have been a veteran surfer taking time out from the waves. He looked her straight in the eyes as he rose to greet her, not easy for many men when Melanie wore heels. When he smiled it went all the way to his eyes. Melanie liked him immediately just from the way he walked, the loping stride of a man too confident and too relaxed to hurry.

Davey took her to a small Italian restaurant on Draycott Street and over a bottle of cheap red wine and spectacular pasta he asked her to consider testing for his first film. Melanie almost laughed out loud. Here she was, a small-time London actress doing voice-overs to pay the mortgage being asked to consider, to consider, testing for potentially the most eagerly awaited film of the year. Melanie didn’t know what she was supposed to say. Without meaning to sound offhand she told him that she would think about it, unaware that her cool detachment only made Davey want her more.

Davey Black’s film was to be set in a remote region of the jungle and Melanie’s part would be a resourceful journalist captured in a kidnap scam with twelve western tourists and a concealed camera. It was to be shot on a combination of DV and film in a gritty, uncompromising style. Davey was determined to keep his debut low-key and cheap, saving the big budgets he had been offered until he had experimented with his style. The script crackled with tension. Melanie had tested first thing the following morning with little preparation but a hunger in her belly for this role of a lifetime. The desperation worked for the scene that she was reading and within twenty-four hours she was offered the part.

At first she had panicked. It was too much. She was a working actress but not a star. Things were finally starting to settle down in her life. She had her own home and boyfriend and she would have to leave both. What if the house burnt down and the boyfriend buggered off? She would have to give up the play at the Royal Court, she would be letting people down. It was like getting an unexpected promotion. What if she couldn’t do it and gave a really bad performance? What if the film was terrible? The carefully planned path of her life could fork off in some irretrievably bad direction. If life was good perhaps she would be better off not taking any risks. She had only two days to decide.

Luckily Melanie had people around her who could see beyond her insecurity and remind her that this was the opportunity of a lifetime and she was only making excuses because she was scared.

The Royal Court had put up a battle, waving her contract in her face, accusing Melanie of selling out to the much hated Hollywood. Melanie had been waiting ten years to sell out to the highest bidder and she’d go for free to a director like Davey Black. The film company bought out her Royal Court contract for a healthy sum, grateful as ever for the depth of talent in theatre providing them with another star to launch. The theatre withdrew their empty threat to sue and thought about recasting.

She passed some of the crew busy sheltering equipment from the rain and frantically testing the light meter in case there was any chance that they could start shooting in these poor conditions. Everything seemed a bit tense but perhaps that was just her.

A converted bus served as the location dining room. A few people were eating and a lively game of cards was in progress down by the back seat. Davey was huddled over a script in the corner with Ella, the costume designer, and their two assistants were hovering nearby with note books. Melanie was happy that the majority of people smiled when she came in. Before she had a chance to decide where to sit she heard the roar of a helicopter approaching very fast.

Who could be stupid enough to fly in this weather? The look of horror she saw pass briefly across Davey’s face made her realize that the big boss was popping by in his usual extravagant style to check out his latest investment.

Bob Rosenburg. A brash American with a year-round tan who liked to call himself a new kind of independent producer. He mistakenly thought he had the personal touch. After seven successful years at a major Hollywood studio a mid-life crisis had prompted him to take his sound business acumen, his enviable eye for a hit, his extensive Rolodex and set up on his own. His previous employers had badmouthed Rosenburg all over town so that the price was low, then they signed him to a five-year first-look contract.

Bob considered himself to be the champion of the auteur, the filmmaker’s friend, though deep inside he must have realized that he couldn’t get past his reputation for stifling deals and ruthless creative control. Too bad. He knew he was supposed to be a nurturing kind of guy, but the bad stuff always made him feel so good.

Bob had scheduled this little stopover en route to the Fox studios in Melbourne, Australia. He knew that Davey had figured shooting this far away from civilization would guarantee him peace, but he hadn’t counted on how far Bob Rosenburg was willing to go when ten million dollars was on the line, not to mention his reputation.

The noise from the helicopter was deafening and the pilot struggled to land.

Davey Black willed the helicopter to crash; he could do without kissing ass today. He sheltered his eyes from the rain as he watched the helicopter pilot bring the bird down and the whirling blades sent the rain into a frenzy.

Bob emerged dressed for the beach in chinos and a polo shirt; his PA had assured him that Indonesia was lovely at this time of year. Dumb bitch. He picked his way through the puddles, ever mindful of his Prada trainers, over to the bus, checked his phoney smile was in place and walked through the door with his arms held wide.

Every conversation stopped dead and Bob’s loud and insincere greetings ricocheted off the walls in the enclosed space.

Melanie watched Bob embrace Davey in an awkward hug that turned into a handshake as Ella appeared at her side. Melanie had liked Ella from day one; she had a wicked sense of humour and a gossipy streak that stopped just the right side of cruel.

‘Bob Rosenburg,’ said Ella. ‘Thirty-seven, single, straight, talented, asshole. I’ve done four pictures with him and I bet you a thousand ruppiah he doesn’t remember my name.’

Bob picked up a copy of the script and leafed through. The usually laid-back Davey jumped to attention and stood ramrod straight, bristling with tension. Bob Rosenburg exuded power in the way that other men exude sex appeal. He was a strange-looking man with a weak chin and prominent eyebrows; it would take a mother to love him.

‘I love this script. D’ya get that, Davey? I. Love. This. Script. You know what? I don’t think I’ve said that about any script before. So let’s not fuck it up. Come on, meeting, let’s go.’ Bob clicked his fingers twice sharply.

Davey was furious. This was his movie and this prick showed up and clicked his goddamn fingers? Bob was executive producing, not producing or line producing. One of the big reasons Davey had been prepared to work with him. He had planned to spend today meeting with his heads of department and fine-tuning the details, keeping it casual and informal with a few drinks. Now he knew he would have to sit in a stuffy trailer without cigarettes and listen to what this prick said. He wasn’t changing one word of his script, but he would smile and make all the right noises. Davey knew how to play the game.

‘Staying long, Bob?’ He attempted a friendly slap on the shoulder.

‘Long enough to put you straight on a few things then I’m out of here. No way am I spending the night in the frigging jungle.’

Davey relaxed. A few hours he could handle. He would agree with everything Bob said and then wave him off and continue to do it his way.

‘Let’s go somewhere private. You have an office?’

Davey had a tiny trailer just like everyone else. He couldn’t miss the look of indignation on Bob’s face when he pulled out a folding stool for him to sit on.

‘Goddamn jungle!’ Bob scratched repeatedly. He had come here to fix the film, and whereas he had once intended to do that as gently and painlessly as possible, his journey had been long and tiring, he was in a shitty mood and now his only priority was to get the hell out of this sweaty, insect-ridden, third-world set-up and back on his helicopter to five-star luxury. Davey wasn’t going to like this. Too bad. Bob had an image of an air-conditioned hotel room spurring him on.

‘Davey, the English girl has got to go.’

‘What? Melanie? No way.’ Davey was confused; nobody had mentioned a problem with any of the casting. He knew that Melanie Chaplin would be a controversial choice, but he’d put together a package of the best of her work and her most outstanding theatre reviews. He gave the whole thing a spin, suggesting that a serious actress like Melanie would give the film depth and widen their more discerning audience. Bob had signed off on the decision.

‘Look, the studio are up in arms about some nobody stage actress taking the best part in this movie. The best part in any movie for a woman her age right now. You have my word that we put her on the next plane out of here and Gwyneth or Julia will be on the next plane in.’

‘Non-negotiable, Bob. It took me six months to find her and I have final say on casting. Besides, she’s got a contract.’

‘But she hasn’t signed.’

Davey felt the blood rushing to his head. He had to stay calm. He was prepared to be nice to Bob on his token set visit but the part of Catherine was crucial, absolutely crucial. If he had wanted a pale-skinned gamine American Princess, they would all have been clawing to get the part. He wanted a teal woman, a strong passionate woman and when he saw Melanie command the stage in London, her lucid eyes flashing with anger and hurt, he’d been captivated.

‘Of course she hasn’t signed, I only just hired her. I’d be surprised if your business affairs guys even got the paperwork to London.’

‘Look, Davey,’ Bob feigned compassion and concern, ‘I know you’re fond of her, who wouldn’t be? She’s a fine-looking woman, but I’m telling you we won’t make this picture with her. You had no right to cast her.’

‘I had every right, check my contract. It’s my script.’

‘I think you’ll find it’s our script since we paid you for it. The purchase price was credited to your account yesterday. You will fire her, and if you won’t, well, then I’ll hate to do it, but we’ll fire you.’

Davey clenched his fists in his lap. Rule number one, never punch your exec producer however much you want to.

‘Davey, we have to work together on this,’ said Bob. He knew he could interpret the contract his way and snake out of another deal. As far as Bob Rosenburg was concerned contracts were barely worth the paper they were written on. He had yet to come across one that he could not break.

This script had leaked all over Hollywood in the last few days and all the major agents were calling him, offering the services of their top names, some real box-office guarantees. Bob had been forced to admit that he had underestimated this production and he wished that he had paid closer attention to the screenplay during development, but the budget was so low he had delegated that responsibility. Bob had read it properly for the first time in months on the plane here and recognized why his telephone was ringing off the hook. He had already bumped the proposed release date to awards season and he wasn’t about to let some bit-part, unknown actress get between him and a Best Film nomination. Fuck low budget, he’d break the bank for the right girl.

‘I’ll do all the dirty work. I’ll tell her it’s a technicality and pay her off. With a pile safe in the bank she won’t give a shit. What’s her name?’

‘Melanie Chaplin.’ Davey concentrated on his breathing in an attempt to control his temper, his fists were clenched beneath the table, but Bob pulled out a copy of his director’s contract, the pertinent clauses already highlighted. Even with his rudimentary knowledge of the legalities, Davey knew his hands were tied.

With a sinking heart Melanie realized that the problem was her.

Bob even had the audacity to smile.

‘We have an unsigned contract here and without your signature we can’t get insured, without insurance we can’t shoot the movie. Do you think we all want to be sat here spending forty thousand dollars an hour doing nothing? If you were a Screen Actors Guild member it would be easy, but you’re not. You’re British. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but we’re letting you go.’

Melanie sat quietly and listened to all this, slowly taking in what this sunburnt producer was telling her. Her big chance was being snatched away from her because of a technicality? And this sweating, scratching, ugly little thing was calling her sweetheart? Bob had seemed so enigmatically powerful from a distance, but up close he disgusted her.

‘You’ll have to speak to my agent.’ She tried to sound firm and in control even though her head was swimming. This was it. She’d get fired off this film and pick up a bad reputation. Nobody would want to work with her. ‘There’s probably a reasonable explanation, or at least a satisfactory compromise.’

‘Too late, sweetheart.’

There he was with that condescending sweetheart shit again.

‘I need to get this picture moving. Today,’ he said. ‘You’ll be paid, don’t you worry about that.’

‘I’m not worried about that, Mr Rosenburg,’ said Melanie. ‘What I am worried about is that you’re sitting here telling me I’m fired and talking about termination clauses when I pay ten per cent to a man in London to deal with this kind of thing for me. Will you go through the proper channels and will you please stop calling me sweetheart.’

She had raised her voice. Now he would hate her even more.

‘Fine. Who’s your agent? I like to do things face to face, out of courtesy, but if you want it this way it just takes a bit longer, same result.’

‘Jim Taylor.’

Bob frowned; Jim was about the only agent in the UK he had time for, the only one with any decent clients at least. ‘You might want to pack while I make the call. Sweetheart.’ He couldn’t resist.

He checked his watch, just after two London time, with a bit of luck he’d miss Jim at lunch and deal with some no-brain assistant.

Lynsey dialled Jim on the other line. Quite possibly he’d scream at her for interrupting him so she braced herself. She was connected to his voicemail and couldn’t decide whether or not she was relieved. She left a quick message and returned to Bob.

‘I’m only getting his voicemail right now but I’ve left a message asking him to return your call.’

Lynsey’s other line was ringing. She ignored it.

‘He’d better,’ said Bob. ‘We have a major problem out here and unless Chaplin signs her contract now, and I mean right now, we have no movie. At least not with her.’ And he hung up.

Lynsey dialled the Groucho but the line was busy.

Her other line was still ringing. She picked it up.

‘Jim Taylor’s office.’

‘Hi, Lynsey, it’s Melanie. May I speak to Jim?’

‘He’s not here, Melanie, and his mobile is on voicemail. Is something going on?’

The line was terrible. Lynsey had to strain to hear as Melanie told her that some git of an American producer – Lynsey swiftly deduced this would be Bob – was waving a contract as thick as a telephone directory in front of her and demanding that she sign or be fired. Melanie’s voice was strangely high pitched and she sounded like she was holding back tears.

‘Melanie, hold on. Are you by a phone? I’ll run round the corner and get Jim and he’ll call you back. Five minutes, okay? Don’t worry, it will be fine.’

‘I need to go and get Jim. If he calls I’ve got my mobile, or he should call Melanie Chaplin.’

She ran down Wardour Street and across the cobbles of Meard Street, arriving breathless in front of the smoked-glass doors with the subtle brass nameplate, easily missed by tourists. She could do without this, she really could.

The polished receptionist informed her that the CMG party had left twenty minutes ago. No, she didn’t know where they were heading.

On her way back to the office Lynsey tried Jim again then called the CMG reception and asked them to try the mobiles for everyone who was at the party, get a message to Jim to call in.

None of this made sense to her. Lynsey could recall several times when clients had started working on films without a signed contract. She knew for a fact that at the very bottom of Jim’s to-do pile lingered an actor’s contract for a major studio that still hadn’t been signed, and since the film had been made, released and was due to come out on video any day now it probably never would be. As long as the main points were agreed and the money was flowing a contract was a bitch of a job that was hard to prioritize. Melanie’s contract had arrived only that morning and Lynsey hadn’t even mentioned it to Jim as he was too busy cramming a day of calls into one hour because of the party. She probably should have told him; she’d get into trouble for that judgement call.

Back at the office Lynsey pulled out the contract. Melanie had exaggerated; it wasn’t as thick as the telephone directory, only nearly. She didn’t understand all of it but felt better having it in front of her. Not a single CMG employee was picking up their mobile; they must have been made to turn them off in the spirit of party solidarity. She had to call Melanie back and say something, she couldn’t just leave her waiting, maybe this wasn’t as bad as it seemed. She took a deep cleansing breath.

‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ Lynsey said. ‘We’ve had plenty of clients work on films with full insurance while we negotiate the contract. You were only employed last week. I’m looking at your contract right now and straight away I can see it’s not great. The billing, the payment schedule. There are definitely things here Jim would want to change. You really shouldn’t sign.’

‘Then what should I do?’

Lynsey had absolutely no idea. ‘Don’t worry about anything,’ she said. ‘It’ll be fine.’

Lynsey had a strong feeling she was already in trouble, and explaining all this to Jim would end in tears, so she may as well go all the way. Melanie actually sounded scared. She was usually so composed but her cool persona was showing definite cracks. Lynsey placed a call to the production office.

‘Bob Rosenburg, please.’

Maybe she could stall him.

‘I don’t know what to say, Mel, they’ve got me in a corner.’

Now Melanie knew it was no simple mistake. Davey looked defeated, his palms facing her in a gesture of resignation. She had hoped that he would be on her side.

‘I’m on your side, Mel, I really am, but if we shut down now this might never get made. I just can’t risk it.’

Oh go on, risk it, please risk it. I can’t go back now. I just can’t. You can’t take this away from me. She didn’t say any of this, she just smiled. Davey was impressed by her attitude. Any other actress would be weeping and wailing or, at the very least, angry with him. Maybe she didn’t care enough. She even looked cool, her linen shorts and light shirt were fresh and clean. There wasn’t a trace of sweat on her brow in the sweltering heat. He looked closely and this time Davey could see a hesitation in her smile and caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes that made her suddenly vulnerable and predictably even more attractive. If only he wasn’t married.

She crossed her fingers and waited.

There was silence before Bob started softly speaking. ‘I don’t know who the hell you think you are, sweetheart, but if Miss Chaplin doesn’t sign right now, she’s off the picture. Now, my time is precious so get off the line and stop fucking with me.’

And then he hung up.

Lynsey seriously considered packing up her desk right now to save time later. Jim was going to be angry. Fair enough, none of this was directly her fault but he would definitely say she shouldn’t have called Bob Rosenburg. She should have waited, they would be back soon enough, but she had been lost in the drama of it all. She could never resist an adventure. She had just pissed off Jim’s man of the moment, and Melanie, and probably Davey Black too. One way or another Lynsey was pretty sure she would be fired by sunset. Think. Think. She tried not to care. So no more Hollywood gossip? So what? An image of the Hollywood sign, gleaming white like a holy icon, galvanized her into action. There may be someone who could save her after all.

Max loved his pool.

It directly overlooked the ocean where he swam for ten months of the year until the water got too cold, or rather until he got too old to take it. Max Parker was sixty-three years old, churned fifty laps a day and ran the New York marathon each year, for charity. It kept his body in good shape and let him eat whatever he wanted without guilt. A highly confidential and top-class hair rinse every three weeks kept the grey hidden at a hefty price, but it was worth it to Max to feel attractive. Beauty didn’t come from within. Beauty came from whatever you could afford to lay out on improving what you had.

Max could hear the phone ringing and interrupted his stroke to consider answering it. He had three live-in staff on the estate but he wouldn’t expect them to pick up such early calls. He’d been in the business for over forty years and it never failed to surprise him the hours that people seemed to need him urgently. It was probably a client in desperate need of a good hooker. When your clients earn twenty million dollars a movie there isn’t much you won’t do to keep them happy. That’s why his client list was the envy of every other agent in town.

Whoever it was on the phone wasn’t giving up. Max had never believed in answer machines, they just meant more calls to return, and the kind of people that had his home number knew he was an early riser; they also knew he could never bear to leave a phone unanswered within earshot.