Shooting Star (Beautiful Chaos) (2 page)

“Why? Why are you so obsessed with putting her in my film? There are other A-list actresses who would kill for the role of Skye. Why Star fucking Davis?”

“She’s hot. She’s beautiful.”

“She’ll come to the set drunk, high on pills, her entourage trailing behind her like slimy snails leaving behind a residue of—”

“It’s done,” Brian said, cutting me off. “She’s signed.
We’ve
signed. I’m the producer and I’m calling the shots here.”

“
What
?” I yelled.

“Don’t raise your voice. Okay, it wasn’t me who decided. It was the person I have to answer to.”

“Who’s that?”

“HookedUp Enterprises, who is mostly backing this. Pearl Chevalier was determined that Star was right for the part. Which meant she had her husband behind her, telling me to tow the line and abide by Pearl’s wishes.”

“I thought they’d sold up.”

“She still has her fingers in all the Hooked Up Enterprise pies. My hands were tied, Jake.”

I took a breath and counted to ten. Well, tried to count to ten but broke out at six, “What’s the catch?” Silence. Brian looked down at his fleshy knuckles and a sheepish flicker of guilt spread across his puffy face that spelled
I had no choice.
“What’s the catch, Brian? I demanded again. “No sane producer is going to take a risk like that without some sort of payoff.”

“She’s coming in under budget.”

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know when you take a date out to dinner and she’s like the most beautiful woman in the room? And you’re broke but you want to impress her?”

Brian was anything but broke. I wasn’t sure where this conversation was heading.

“And you think she’s going to order caviar or something and you’re worrying about how you’re going to pay the check?—and then she actually says she wants a soda and a salad and you’re like, thank fucking God.”

“You’re telling me Star Davis just wants a soda? I don’t think so.” The last thing I read about Star Davis was that she only drank Cristal. From 1930s champagne saucers, no less. ‘Simple’ wasn’t her style.

“She’s basically doing this part for free,” Brian explained.

“But she commands millions. Twenty million, wasn’t it? Her last movie?”

“She was desperate for the part of Skye. She knows it’s the role of a lifetime.”

“She’s doing it for
no pay
?”

“Practically. A couple hundred thousand dollars. That’s free in her language.”

I shook my head. “She’s wrong for the part.”

“She’s right for the part and you know it.”

I scraped my hands anxiously through my hair. “I can’t let this happen. This is insane.
Insane
!”

“It’s done, Jake. That was the deal. You got creative control except for casting. It’s done and dusted. Your granddaddy and your uncle can’t do a thing about it now so don’t think you can pull the ‘Hollywood Royalty’ card and get them involved in this.”

Blood rushed to my ears. I wanted to punch him square in the face. But what Brian said was true, although I was loath to admit it and even ashamed on some level. Not ashamed of my granddad or uncle or my father. Hell, no. With seven Oscars between them they were as respected and acclaimed as any film director or producer could be. And I loved them. But a deep-rooted humiliation lodged at the pit of my stomach like a lump of food you’ve swallowed too fast—I’d been born with a shiny golden spoon in my mouth. Rich and privileged my whole damn life. Eternally trying to prove that I merited my present success. That I wasn’t some spoiled British brat basking in the rays of Hollywood nepotism. In fact, my father hadn’t given me a penny since my eighteenth birthday and I was a wealthy man in my own right even though I was still only twenty-six. Had four movies under my belt, all directed by yours truly, one of which had been nominated the year before for a Golden Globe for best screenplay (which I co-wrote and produced). Still, the “lucky bastard-has-never-had-to-do-a hard-day’s-work-in-his-life” label left a chip on my shoulder. A notch out of the smooth marble gleam that was my indisputable success. I was being given a fifty-seven million dollar budget for
Skye’s The Limit
. Nobody hands out that sort of cash to someone who hasn’t proven himself and I was no exception. But it came with strings attached and I felt like a marionette dancing for the big, Hollywood puppet masters.

“Look,” Brian said, his chubby fingers barely touching the steering wheel as we cruised along. “It’s not just me. This town’s being run by conglomerates and corporations now, not individuals, you know that. They don’t give a crap about anything but big bucks and returns. These suits don’t care about art. They want ‘bums on seats’ as you Brits say. My advice? Shut the fuck up about Star, do your job and you’ll be nominated for Best Director this time next year.”

I shook my head. “You’ve really asked for trouble casting her, you know that, don’t you?”

“She won an
Oscar,
Jake. She can
act
.”

I laughed. “She was nine years old, Brian! Since then her greatest jobs have been
blow
jobs.”

“Now you’re being crude.”

He shoved another stick of Juicy Fruit in his gob and buzzed down his window. A warm spring breeze blew welcomingly into the car. “Why have I got the air-con going?” he said with a chuckle. “It’s a beautiful day outside.” He fiddled with the music control on the steering wheel and Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab” blared out. His idea of a joke, obviously.

“I can’t believe you did that,” I mumbled.

“Rolled the window down or play this song?”

“Star Davis,” I said.
“Really
?”

“There was no point telling you. I knew you’d never agree.”

“I should walk away right now. Leave you to stew in your own juices—you can find some other mug director who’ll take her on.”

“Maybe, but I know you won’t do that. You have too much of your soul already invested in this picture.”

I looked out of the open window as Los Angeles crawled past in the traffic and exhaled a sigh of momentary defeat. This town was doing my head in. Making me lose sight of reality. The palm trees towering into the azure sky like skinny skyscrapers reaching as high as they could go—everyone reaching beyond their means. Grabbing, aspiring, grasping, taking. Even the trees, goddammit. And the houses on Sunset with their manicured lawns, making you believe that life could be controlled, clipped, neatened. Like my father. A control freak who’d move a pencil one inch to the left if he felt it was out of place. Not on set, no. In his own freaking home! A pencil. And I tried to be like him. Organized. Sharp. On the ball. Controlled. A colonel-in-the-army type. But that wasn’t me and never had been. I secretly welcomed madness with relish. Unintentionally courted it. Nurtured dysfunction as if it were a breastfeeding baby, willing chaos into my life the way some people attract money or women. Right now my mind was rattling with a sort of hectic glee. Star Davis represented turmoil and for some unknown reason it excited me—my curiosity piqued.

“I wanted an
unknown
for the role of Skye,” I told Brian, willing my thoughts back to safer waters.
A nice, new actress with no baggage, no ego and no “history”—that’s what I need.
“I’ve been auditioning at drama schools all over the world. I’ve seen sixty-two actresses. I’d narrowed it down to eight. And now you tell me I’ve basically wasted my time?”

“You tell the press that very same thing. ‘I saw sixty-two actresses and, you know what? None of them hold a candle to Star Davis.’ ”

“A candle that’s going to start a fire.”

“You’ll figure it out, Jake. I mean, let’s face it, she’s met her match—
match
, haha, no pun intended, Get it? She can set you alight.”

I didn’t laugh at his joke. “What’s that supposed to mean, ‘met her match’?”

“Bad boy Jake Wild—you’ve had some good times on the casting couch yourself, my friend. You can’t deny you’ve clocked up quite a reputation over the years.”

“The couch has been reupholstered, Brian. The past is the
past
. I don’t take advantage of starry-eyed actresses these days. I’m a professional. I get the job done and don’t screw around with the talent anymore. Ever. Well, as of last week. It’s my number one rule.”

“Well leave Star in peace, you know what I’m saying? She’s vulnerable. She’s fresh out of rehab and needs to be
looked after
.” He fixed his piggy gaze on me, a bushy eyebrow twitching ironically.

“Oh no! Don’t look at me, mate. There’s no way I’ll be her fucking nanny!”

“You’re the only one, Jake, who can keep her on the straight and narrow. We can’t have her going AWOL in the middle of a shoot. She’ll need to be watched like a hawk.”

“What about her sea of bodyguards? her PA, her father, for that matter?”

“None of them can be trusted. She’s too manipulative. Besides, they’re all on her payroll.”

“Her father too?”

“He’s her unofficial manager.”

“Great ‘manager,’ ” I murmured.

“Star’s been supporting her entire family ever since she did that diaper commercial when she was two years old. She has a strange perspective on life. She has never been told ‘no.’ So she’s used to being boss, and getting what she wants.”

“Well she’s not bloody bossing me.” I said that with bravado, yet here I was being ‘bossed’ by the system. Brian. The executive producers, the producers, the moneymen, the money women . . . the goddam accountants. The suits whose faces I’d never even seen. And indirectly, Star herself. She’d slithered her way into winning the part of Skye with her wily ways, by offering herself practically free. Clever girl. She’d probably sucked someone’s dick to get the part. She had me in a corner and I hadn’t even met her yet.

“And one more thing,” Brian added. “Apparently her house is about to be remodeled and she was planning to move into a hotel for a while. But I don’t trust the idea of Star Davis running around loose in a hotel, you know? Too many distractions—too much booze on tap.”

“What’s your point?” I said, meeting his eyes with a stony glare.

“I thought until every shot is in the can it would be a good idea if she stayed in your home—you can make sure there’re no temptations—no drugs or liquor anywhere near her.”

I stared at him incredulously as he smoothly took a bend, the Porsche revving with a quiet growl.

He went on, “We can hire our own bodyguard—someone who can’t be bribed by her to slip her anything—he could live in your guest house—the one in your garden? And
she
could stay in one of your guest bedrooms. So, you know, she’ll be under your roof.” He was serious when he said this.

“No. Brian, you’re really pushing your luck. I have limits. I don’t want some wayward teenager telling me to fuck off in my own house. I’m not her father. I’m a film director. I have
work
to do. Storyboards to prepare, scenes to plan out. I have to stay on top of the shooting schedule, liaise with my assistant director, my lighting cameraman—Jesus, what the fuck? I don’t have
time
to deal with some drug-addicted, attention-seeking, Cristal-drinking brat!”

I felt trapped in his car, listening to his bullshit. But what could I do? It was my driver’s day off. Half of Hollywood were acting as my chauffeurs since I’d had my license taken away from me six months before. I’d been over the limit (barely) but it had been 3 a.m., when there were hardly any cars on the road, so being hauled over by the LAPD was the last thing I’d been expecting. Brian was right: my reputation for being a bad boy was on par with Star’s wild-child antics. We had indeed each met our match. Only, I really
had
turned over a new leaf, but Star Davis?
That would be the day.
I started ruminating on what actress we could hire when it all went—because I knew it would—badly pear-shaped. We’d need to have a Plan B. An understudy, the way they do with theatre productions. Someone who looked like her and could act—maybe we could use some of the same footage—back view shots anyway. . . . . .

“We’re here.” Brian shook me from my reverie as we drew up in front of my house. We’ll talk later. Think about what I said.”

“Right,” I said sarcastically, and slammed the passenger door harder than I’d intended.

My 1920s mansion stood there, its white façade blanched to a glare in the harsh May sunlight. The lawn stretched before me like a smooth carpet. The gardener must have come because it was neat and smelled freshly mown. As beautiful as my home was, I intended to sell it and buy something more discreet in the Hills. I was becoming too well known to have a villa smack on Sunset Boulevard. I sniggered to myself, imagining the fiasco if Star came to live with me for the duration of the shoot. The paparazzi would have a fucking hay day. Impossible, Brian needed his head examined! What kind of crazy-fool idea was he hatching? To get me arrested along with her? For aiding and abetting an underage alcoholic? The USA’s ridiculous age limit for drinking was twenty-one. Being British, I found this absurd. I’d been going to pubs since I was fifteen. Star was still only nineteen. “Illegal.” A nineteen-year-old edging her way into my life when she was the last thing I needed. Fuck! Who was I fooling, believing I had things under control? Yes, I was a pretty powerful man in Hollywood, with the extra clout of my grandfather, dad and uncle behind me. And with more money than was sane. I owned two vacation homes, a luxury flat in London, a fleet of cars (which presently, I wasn’t even bloody well able to drive) and artwork that belonged in museums. But I still had to answer to people. They had assured me—and I had it in my contract—I’d have creative control. But at that point I had no idea quite how damn “creative” things were about to get.