Breaking Hollywood (8 page)

American Stars
was at the other end of the shooting scale. Filmed in a huge sound stage, with 1,000 screaming spectators, full lights and pyro facilities at Television Center. But the
biggest difference was the noise. There was a wall of sound from the minute Davie entered the set until the curtain came down on the hysterical contestant who had just been despatched back to his
old life in Arkansas.

Mellie was still chattering in their ears. ‘Lainey, honey, you look gorgeous tonight.’

To Davie’s immediate right, Lainey Anders’s voluptuous cleavage trembled as she chuckled. The woman had been the Queen of Country for four decades, thanks to a stiletto-sharp
business brain that was as impressive as her ability to stay beautiful, remain current and come off as so damn sweet that the nation adored her.

‘I know I do, but keep talking, sweetheart,’ Lainey replied, the cute wink spreading the laughter to everyone privy to the conversation, Davie included.

Easy, generous and utterly professional, Lainey was everything that the woman on his left was not.

Princess. Just one name. Like Madonna, Cher and Britney. Princess had been a Disney star since she was delivered to a casting call for
The Mickey Mouse Club
by a mother who had
absolutely no doubt in her mind that her little girl was destined for the kind of stardom that would transport them from a rented studio apartment in Compton to a gated complex in Calabasas.
She’d been absolutely right.

At twenty-one, the chick had four platinum-selling albums and two critically acclaimed movies under her diamanté thong. Unfortunately, that left no room for trifling personality traits
like humility, authenticity and civility; thus she was also known by just one name on the set of
American Stars
– Bitch.

Demanding, unreasonable, irrational, shrill, self-obsessed and prone to blatant rudeness, she was an absolute nightmare to deal with – and Davie loved every minute of it because those were
also the reasons that she made this show compulsive viewing for the under-twenty-five demographic.

With Lainey bringing in the thirty-five-plus market, Davie scoring high in twenty to forty, and Princess on the youngsters, it was the perfect ratings balance. Six weeks into the current season
and they were killing the opposition. If Cowell or Seacrest ever retained the services of a good hitman, Davie knew he’d have to invest in a Kevlar vest.

Tonight, in a last-minute tribute/token exploitation, they’d decided to dedicate the show to the music of the late, great Jizzo Stacks, whose five-day-old corpse was still lying in a
refrigerated drawer in the Los Angeles County Coroner’s building. The autopsy was scheduled for the following day and the thought of it made Davie’s buttocks clench despite the fact
that the suits had assured him he was not liable for Jizzo’s demise. None of the blame could be laid at his door. Last time he checked, silently hoping someone would be wasted enough to give
great TV wasn’t a criminal offence.

Neither was making sure that his interests were fully covered and maximized. It had been a crazy few days. He’d pretty much worked round the clock, but it had all paid off. As a result of
everything he’d put in place, reruns of
Beauty and the Beats
had been playing on half a dozen networks, Carmella and Jizzo’s very own video channel had been reaching millions
with daily updates, and the
American Stars
theme for tonight’s show had been changed from ‘Retro Disco’ to ‘Celebrating Jizzo’.

On top of all that, at the end of the first week,
Here’s Davie Johnston
had achieved the kind of ratings that beat even the most optimistic predictions.

Win. Win. Win.

‘Davie!’ Mellie’s voice blasted in his ear this time, so she’d obviously returned to the gallery in preparation for the countdown. ‘Get the grin off your face
– we’re one minute to air and you have to deliver the condolences. Lainey, are you rubbing his thigh again?’

Lainey nodded, her face a picture of mischief. ‘Of course, my darlin’. You know it relaxes me.’

‘It’s what it’s doing for Davie I’m more concerned about.’

The answer, he suddenly realized, was absolutely nothing. This was a consequence of Jizzo’s death that he’d keep to himself. He wasn’t about to share with the American viewing
public that he was so consumed by the parting of a legend that – for the first time this season – he wasn’t kicking off an episode of
American Stars
with a raging hard-on
caused by an iconic country superstar rubbing his thigh.

‘Urgh, you two are, like, so gross,’ Princess spat, without even breaking her focus on the cell phone in front of her. Davie wondered for a moment if he’d ever had a
conversation with her in which she’d actually put that damn phone down long enough to look him in the eye. Nope, not as far as he could remember. But then, this Bitch, with a capital
‘B’, knew her stuff. She’d no doubt uploaded a dozen selfies in the last ten minutes, gained a few hundred more followers from around the globe and boosted her record sales by
thousands – all in the same space of time it had taken him to realize his dick was refusing to be stirred by the fond strokes of a country icon.

Who was the loser here, then?

‘OK, people, here we go. Floor, get some energy in the audience. Titles roll. Panel, stand by. And three, two, one . . . Lauren, we’re on you.’

On stage, just a spotlight, illuminating the porcelain skin and tumbling red waves of Lauren Finney, winner the year before last and this season’s host. It had been Davie’s idea to
give her the gig this year. It made perfect sense. The girl was talented, beautiful and, unlike the snide, obnoxious Princess beside him, she had a personality that the country had fallen in love
with. On themed shows like tonight, she opened with a song, before digging into the three months of intense training she’d undergone to give her the skills she needed to steer the
American Stars
juggernaut. Davie had been by her side, mentoring her every step of the way. He had a soft spot for this kid and he wanted to make it happen for her.

In previous years, with different girls, he’d no doubt contravened several rules regarding sex in the workplace. Not now. Lauren wasn’t that girl, and his relationship with Sarah had
made him no longer that guy. At least not in action. There may still have been the occasional incident in his imagination.

Giving Lauren the gig had definitely been a gamble, but one that paid off. It gave the show credibility. Lauren’s debut album had just gone platinum, proving that
American Stars
lived up to its name. What better way to remind everyone of that than to have Lauren here every week? And sure, it helped that what she lacked in presentation polish she made up for in overwhelming
likeability. Although, as expected, Princess didn’t necessarily agree or appreciate the competition, as evidenced by the murmurs of ‘Fuck this shit’ beside him.

Mellie heard it too.

‘Pipe down there, Princess. Keep your evil for the contestants,’ she warned.

Davie wasn’t paying attention, too focused on the stage.

Lauren looked up, blue eyes wide and oozing pain as she picked out an A-minor chord on her guitar and then almost whispered the first line of ‘Cut You’, Jizzo Stacks’s biggest
hit. Back in the 1980s, in Jizzo’s heavy-metal hands, it had been a furious, demonic threat to a lover. The ethereal beauty of Lauren’s incomparable voice transformed it, making it a
haunting lament to lost love, the breaking of a heart that was now spilling blood, captivating a viewing audience of over 15 million.

For the first time ever, there wasn’t a sound in the audience. Not a murmur. Even Princess had hushed.

Only when she sang the last line, one perfect tear dropping down her cheek, did the audience react. And what a reaction. Every inhabitant of the Television Center was on their feet, crying,
cheering, emotions raw and laid out for all to see.

Davie knew three things for sure.

Tonight was going to be an incredible show.

Mellie would have captured every second of this performance and audience reaction so well that viewers across the nation would be weeping into their pizza.

And his people would have this on iTunes by midnight, where it would rise to number one within twenty-four hours.

No doubt Jizzo was up there somewhere calling Davie all the fuckers under the sun for profiting out of his death, but at the same time, he wouldn’t expect anything less.

The rest of the show was flawless.

There were eight acts left in the competition, and any one of them had the potential to make it. Tonight, each of them raised their game in an attempt to match Lauren’s impact. No one did,
but their brilliant interpretations of Jizzo’s hits, interspersed with VTs of other stars paying tribute to the fallen rocker, made it the perfect blend of entertainment and emotion.

That was showbiz. A year ago, Jizzo was washed up, almost a joke, a has-been with a bad weave who was desperately holding onto a fanbase that had long ago swapped their leather trousers for
pension plans and brochures for assisted-living facilities. Throw in a supermodel girlfriend, a hit reality show and behaviour that would get him arrested anywhere else in the world, and the result
was the kind of homage that used to be reserved for state leaders and royalty.

As the closing titles rolled with the telephone numbers that gave the viewers the opportunity to play God and vote an act off (10 cents per call, standard network rates may apply), Davie
exhaled, relaxing for the first time in almost a week.

He’d done it.

They’d pulled it off.

Tonight had been a good night.

In the old days, he’d want to pick up a few girls and go indulge in some serious self-congratulation in a hotel suite that came with hot and cold running excess.

But not now. Tonight, he just wanted to head home, hook up with Sarah and then wake up tomorrow morning to the ratings figures and a top iTunes position for Lauren’s opening number.

It was all about the dollar, baby.

It took a couple of hours to debrief, wrap everything up, schmooze everyone who needed schmoozing and arrange a planning session for the next day.

It was almost midnight by the time he pushed through the studio doors onto the sidewalk, only a few burly security guards and a stretch of yellow tape holding back the small crowd, all of them
holding out iPhones. God, he missed the simple days of relative obscurity and autograph books.

Nevertheless, he slipped straight into Tom Cruise mode, shaking hands, taking selfies and working his way along the line, lest someone put his refusal on Instagram and within five minutes the
whole world thinks he’s a dick. Again.

‘Davie, we love you!’

‘Can you say, “Hi, Betty!”? My mom loves you.’

Yep, he still had it. His fans still adored him. Last year was a blip, but he was headed back to the top. No more crap, no more disasters, and one day – in a ghost-written memoir –
he’d claim it made him a better person. He’d say it was a turning point – had to reach rock bottom to appreciate what mattered or similar shit. Meanwhile, life was getting real
good again.

‘Davie . . .’

The voice. Male. Teenage.

His head raised to check it out.

The recoil was automatic, as was the tight clench of his eyes as the red liquid reached his face. He staggered backwards, waiting for the pain, but there was only an intoxicating, metallic smell
that seeped into his pores.

The smell of someone else’s blood.

‘Every Breath You Take’ – Sting

Mirren

The Centurion Suite at Staples Center wasn’t their usual venue for Thursday-night dinner, but given this was the first South City concert in a three-night run, there was
no way the two women, sitting anonymously at a corner table, would be anywhere else.

Lou Cole paused, a bread roll midway to her mouth. She prided herself on being the last person in Los Angeles who still consumed carbs on anything other than birthdays, Christmas or the
discovery that your partner was cheating on you with a twenty-two-year-old waitress.

‘Honey, you really need to get laid. Seriously. It’s the only thing that will help at this point.’

Mirren tilted her head to one side, caught somewhere between amusement and outrage. ‘Then I think we can give thanks that you’re not a bereavement counsellor or there’d be a
whole lot of shagging going on.’

‘You’re right. I think I missed my calling.’

Mirren couldn’t resist the urge to smile. Only friends who had been together for a lifetime could spark off each other like this.

She’d first met Lou Cole when she came to Hollywood in 1992. Back then, the only three people she knew in the whole of the US were Davie and Zander, who’d come over from Scotland
with her, and Wes Lomax, who had ‘discovered’ them. Lomax had been on a golfing trip to St Andrews when Davie had persuaded the room-service waitress to let him take an order to
Lomax’s room, allowing him to sneak Mirren’s first attempt at writing into the legendary producer’s suite. Lomax had loved it, made the movie, called it
The Brutal Circle
and, goddammit, had it not won them an Oscar.

Welcome to the American Dream. Come right on in.

Back then, Lou had been a feisty young journalist on the
LA Times
, a go-getting African American rebelling against the establishment and ambitious to the point of ruthless. It had paid
off. Now she was the editor of the industry newspaper the
Hollywood Post
, a weekly publication with a linked website, that reported every industry move, play, leaked email and piece of
gossip. The stars came to her with exclusives, chose her centre pages to break stories or get ahead of scandals. In a time when the press were viewed somewhere between rodents and serial killers on
the Hollywood scale, Lou Cole still commanded respect, largely because she was a force of nature with integrity, brains and the ear of every important player within a fifty-mile radius of the Walk
of Fame.