Hiding Hollywood Read online

  Hiding Hollywood

  Ainslie Paton

  A romantic comedy about betrayal, gossip & being star struck

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and things that happen are the product of the author’s vivid imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organisations or people, living or dead is purely co-incidental and beyond the intent of the author and publisher.

  Copyright © 2011

  Chapter Index

  1: Business Unusual

  2: Get a Room

  3: Hypothetically

  4: News Travels

  5: The Creature that Stirred

  6: No Room at the Inn

  7: Enid Blyton

  8: Someday My Prince Will Call

  9: Renovation Rescue

  10: Stranger than fiction

  11: Fireworks

  12: Dial Tone

  13: A New Day-Oh

  14: Sudden Squalls

  15: Thunder and Lightning

  16: Playing Possum

  17: Aftermath

  18: Taken In

  19: Ambiguities

  20: Hammock

  21: Revelations

  22: Change of Heart

  23: Runaway Emotions

  24: Mercy

  25: Morning After

  26: Unfinished Business

  27: Eve

  28: Break of Day

  29: Break a Heart

  30: Misunderstood

  31: Fly Away Home

  32: Old Friends

  33: Post Event Blues

  34: The Hollywood Problem

  35: On Broadway

  36: Brutal

  37: Deserted Island

  38: Encore

  1Business Unusual

  Our eyes met across the table top cluttered with leftover sandwich triangles, half eaten chocolate biscuits and empty coffee cups. One look - dictionaries of meaning.

  Tobias, on speakerphone from Golden Major Studios in Los Angeles, droned on about why the movie release date had changed and the need to cancel the pre-publicity tour.

  Michael’s handsome face expressed his disappointment, frustration, anxiety and exhaustion. He was slumped in his chair, all the stuffing plucked out of him.

  This project was important to us. Not just for the significant income it would generate, income we needed to survive, but because it was high profile and would demonstrate to our competitors that we’d hit the big time. But the project was in trouble.

  Twelve months ago, Michael and I started a business together. Our company ‘Arrive’, specialised in launch events and celebrity publicity tours. We helped companies attract attention to their products. We also helped people to build their personal fame, mostly so that they could sell something.

  So far, we’d managed the media interview programs for famous sports stars turned TV presenters, hot shot chefs turned authors, heavyweight political figures, eminent physicians, iconic chief executives, aspiring rock stars, event promoters, disaster survivors and even a child genius.

  We’d launched everything from cookbooks and gadgets to computer games and bionic hearing aids. We filled seats at events, encouraged people to queue overnight, put new products in shopping trolleys and helped consumers fall in love with things they never knew they needed.

  We worked behind the scenes to help noteworthy people reach large audiences. We managed the details: the hotels, cars and planes, the meals, wake up calls and personal styling, the photo shoots, face to face interviews and shopping centre visits.

  Of course sometimes we helped people do the opposite - stay out of the public eye. Like the leading footballer caught wearing a mini skirt and heels, the school teacher who moonlighted as a stripper and the high profile managing director accused of shoplifting.

  Some of our clients were like scared rabbits, caught in the headlights of a Mack truck, so freaked out by all the noise, light and attention that they could barely function normally without us holding their hands.

  Others were so swollen headed we had trouble greasing them through doorways. Sometimes, only a couple of months separated the rabbits from the big heads. Some of our clients were nice, genuine people and some of them were carefully manufactured brands or self important prima donnas.

  Did that make me cynical about the work we did and the people who were our clients? Sure. I’d seen behind the wizard’s curtain. I knew how the magic was made, what was real and what was illusion. But every so often our work lead to something amazing happening.

  We helped a man trapped on a mountain top for four days with only a chocolate bar for sustenance tell his incredible story of survival. We helped a mother battle the Department of Education over the rights of her gay son. We helped raise money for a new drug and alcohol program for street kids and saw the number of people involved in a national fitness program double.

  For every jumped up C-grade attention seeker we had as a client, there was the chance to do good work that made things better, and it was enough to keep me inspired. Aside from that, you got to meet the most interesting people and on most days, it was more fun than you could have with your clothes off.

  Michael ran his hand through his thick, wavy hair and sighed. To his left, our account directors Lainey Cavanaugh and Allan Hong, looked just as concerned. News of the tour being cancelled wasn’t good for us.

  Michael was intently focused on my reaction. Silently he was asking for my opinion, my insight and my support. His look said, ‘I trust you and I need you and you’d better have an answer for this’.

  I leant forward and pressed the mute button on the speakerphone. We could still hear Tobias but he was blocked from hearing us, “We’ll be ok. We just have to watch our expenditure. It’s a hit to our finances but we’ll manage with a little creative thinking. Anyway, Toby’s not saying the tour is cancelled permanently, just cancelled for now.”

  Michael grinned and straightened in his chair, “Creative accounting, I shudder to think. Figures you’d come up with that, I just hope it’s legal.”

  “Would I do you wrong?” I said with a questioning shrug. Lainey and Allan both laughed and Michael responded with a wry grin, reached for a double chocolate Tim Tam with one hand and punched off the mute button with the other.

  “Of course, our boy is heartbroken. He was really looking forward to seeing Sydney in summer. But he’ll just have to make do when we re-program the tour later in the year,” drawled Tobias.

  On that more positive news, Michael said, “That would be terrific!” while Allan did a mad little dance around his chair and Lainey mimed a prayer of thanks.

  “Then I think we’re done here,” said Tobias. “Not the Christmas present you were looking for I’m sure, but we’ll be in touch again when the opening date firms up.”

  We ended the call with a chorus of ‘season’s greetings’ and Lainey and Allan hustled back to their desks to hit the phones and begin the process of cancelling dozens of newspaper and magazine interviews and TV appearances we’d set up.

  Alone, Michael and I could discuss the situation more openly. “It’s more than just a hit isn’t it?” he asked.

  “It’s a big hit. Unfortunately, the deal with Tobias is that we don’t get paid for the work we’ve already done until the tour happens, but if we’re careful we’ll be ok,” I responded.

  “You’re right of course, we can survive financially. But I’m worried about how it might hurt our reputation. This was the A-list, a Hollywood studio project. It doesn’t get much bigger in terms of noise, attention and potential income than that. It might look like a problem with us caused the cancellation. We’re still an upstart agency and there are competitors who’d like to see us fail.”

  “Like To
m Flourish.”

  “Definitely our friend Mr Flourish,” said Michael, with a grimace as he cleared the table, “He will think this is an especially good Christmas present.”

  This of course was our real problem. The artist management and publicity business was cutthroat. Every year new firms with promise launched and every year several of them failed. We wanted Arrive to be one of the successes and we knew focus, consistent hard work and a high quality client list were part of that.

  This tour would have cemented our reputation as a force to be reckoned with. ‘Our boy’, Shane Horan, was currently one of the world’s most bankable Hollywood stars. He was hot, hot, hot, a constant fixture in traditional news media and the online world.

  He was voted Celebrity Magazine’s ‘most bed-able’ and was fresh from yet another box office blockbuster. And oh yes, he’d just released his second rock album. The man was a genuine talent with the aura of a Brad Pitt, the cheekiness of a Jack Black and sex appeal that made otherwise sane women throw expensive lacy underwear at him.

  With his blonde locks, razor sharp cheek bones and melt you blue eyes, Shane was the biggest star of the moment. And up until a moment ago, he was going to be ours for a whole three days. By managing Shane’s publicity tour we could thoroughly demonstrate our professional capabilities in a way the rest of the industry would have to sit up and notice.

  While the delay wasn’t a complete catastrophe, it would certainly hurt and anything could happen between now, the new movie release date and a new publicity tour, to change things. Michael and I had both been in the industry long enough to know the only thing that was ever certain was nothing.

  “Well, our competitors, including Mr Flourish, can think whatever they want. Our little firm is here to stay,” I said, adding, “You need a haircut.”

  “No I don’t,” he responded, quick as a flash.

  “Yes, you do.” Our long term pattern was to annoy each other.

  “Says the woman only wearing one shoe. What would you know? And quit bossing me around. Just because you’re currently disabled, don’t think you’re getting any sympathy from me!”

  I tried not to laugh. I was only wearing one shoe. “Ah low blow, unkind sir, trust you to kick a woman when she’s down to one heel.”

  “You’re never down. You’re the most up person I know, even if you are wearing an ugly, clumpy space boot. You know, I often wonder what I’d be doing now if I’d not met you.”

  “You’d be broke, ugly and loveless.”

  “Ok, I take that back. You’re the bane of my life. I’m sorry I ever shared a theory of modern communication text book with you,” he said with playful exasperation.

  “Anyway, in my role as chief bane, I’m suggesting we need a staff meeting. We should make sure our team understands what’s going on and no one is worried by any industry gossip they hear,” I said.

  “And no one starts any gossip either,” Michael agreed. “Tom always seems to know what’s going on behind our new wallpaper almost as soon as we do. No time like the present. I’ll gather the gang and we can settle this now,” he said and half out the door added, “Andi, don’t you get up now. You just sit there Princess and leave this to me.”

  So I did. Moving around had been difficult since my accident, but the space boot, one of those thick padded boots with straps that have replaced the old plaster casts, and a set of crutches was helping me get about a little better now. I should be able to ditch the crutches in another week and the boot itself in a fortnight if everything went well. Meanwhile I was a limping disaster, a one shoe wonder and sitting was my preferred posture.

  I’m still not entirely sure how I managed to do myself so much damage. I’m not normally a klutz. I’m fit and strong. Imagine a cross between Sporty Spice, but better dressed, and Sandra Bullock on a really, really bad day when not even her own mother would recognise her.

  There I was, walking Harvey down our usual route to the park. It was coming on dusk and the sky was a lovely soft pink colour and the scent of jasmine was in the air.

  Next thing there was a flurry of bright orange fur, a tangle of arms, legs and leash, an awful wet tearing sound and a mournful keening. The keening was Harvey lamenting the chance to get that damn cat and the tearing was my Achilles tendon.

  It had seemed like forever, but Michael was there ten minutes after my incoherent phone call. He must have broken every land speed record to get there so quickly and the fact that he even understood where to come look for me from my pain filled babbling was another miracle.

  I don’t remember much about what happened next, but I do know it involved being carried, having my hand held and needing a nurse to find a bucket for the largest bunch of flowers anyone having emergency surgery ever saw.

  I’d never been so grateful for speed dial or for Michael and yet I’d had many occasions to feel grateful for Michael. But now I had occasion to be worried about him.

  After ten years, I knew his every mood as he knew mine. We’d shared a fabulous friendship. We’d been fresh faced students, rivals for class distinctions, drinking mates, personal crisis advisors, hand holders, money lenders, confidence keepers, taxi drivers, wingmen, colleagues and now business partners.

  We could finish each other’s sentences, anticipate each other’s opinion, argue like brother and sister and sulk like scorned lovers. We’d never been lovers, but one time, we’d come close, very close...

  2: Get a Room

  It was the end of term and we’d just had our last lecture for the year. I’d picked up a high distinction in journalism class and Michael had a headline story running in the university newspaper. We were high on life, the anticipation of a few weeks holiday and feeling momentarily invincible, if a little broke.

  Between us, we had enough money to share a cheap meal and a cheaper bottle of wine or two. We had honey prawns and Sichuan beef with rice and quite a bit too much dry white wine.

  My fortune cookie’s message said, Try anything once, even things you think you won’t like, which caused Michael to spout a whole list of things he thought I should try but wouldn’t like including, nude skydiving, recycled teabags, chocolate chicken’s feet, and being on time. Ok, so I occasionally did have trouble getting to lectures on time.

  When Michael’s cookie was inexplicably without any message at all he called for a rematch, managing to make our waiter laugh with his comments about being abandoned and fortuneless, which as the student most likely to succeed, was sweetly ironic.

  My second cookie’s message was, Stop searching, happiness is right next to you, which made me pretend gag and then roar with laugher when Michael’s cookie said, Love is free but lust will cost you everything you have.

  We left the restaurant with sides aching from laughter rather than too much to eat and I remember I couldn’t quite believe how lucky I was to have Michael as my best friend.

  He really was impossibly handsome and improbably nice to go with it. Mrs Carson had done a brilliant job bringing up Michael on her own. He was witty, charming and clever and he knew precisely how to listen so that you felt you could tell him anything and everything and there was nothing you could do to disappoint him.

  All of this of course, made him Mr Popularity. Talk about always being chosen first to play on any team. Michael had a big circle of friends and a steady supply of willing girlfriend candidates. But mostly there was Jess. Tiny, ballerina pretty Jess.

  Jess knew the definition of more words than I’d ever seen in print, she wrote the most focused essays, the cleverest plays and the smartest jokes. Michael and Jess were more or less a permanent couple. Sometimes more and sometimes less, depending on how much study, work or family commitments they had.

  They seemed to move in and out of their relationship with ease and simplicity. There was never any drama, no strain or awkwardness, no tears and importantly no promises. That was their rule - no promises and no one would get hurt. And it seemed to work. With other friends, it was sometimes a sudden suici
de mission just to ask where their other half was. Couples formed and split with the speed of a blink. Close your eyes overnight and whole new relationships could be solidified with yesterday’s love disappearing from view as quickly as a dropped contact lens.

  For me, Michael was a daring partner in minor crime, a voice of reason, a midnight confidante and the brother I’d never had. Along with Jess we were a formidable team, we had a near guaranteed high grade when we did assignments together and we were never short of something to amuse us.

  That night at the restaurant was one of the occasions Jess was missing. She grew up on a banana plantation on the mid north coast and went home to her family in term breaks while Michael and I stayed behind with our part time jobs.

  That night, through the filter of too much wine, not quite enough food and a fortune cookie sugar hit, I was struck anew at just how stupidly handsome Michael was. Tall, suntanned and athletic, his hair was always impossibly glossy and unruly, his eyes the deepest nutmeg brown. He had a voice made for radio, deep, strong and confident, the widest most engaging smile and one inspiring little dimple in his cheek.

  It was that dimple that undid me that night. I made a joke of poking it, he made a joke of capturing my finger which lead to sitting far too close on the train on the way out of the city, which lead a sudden understanding of just how muscular he was from leaning against his side and pressing against his leg, which eventually lead to him tucking a swath of my long dark hair behind my ear and a tentative kiss, much less tentative kisses and a bloke sitting behind us saying loudly, “Get a room!”

  Without any discussion we’d decided that was sound advice and holding hands like two kids on the way to Luna Park, we got off the train and headed to Michael’s flat.

  Even now I can summon up the sensation of nerves, excitement and straight out lust coursing through my body and by the way he kept stopping and leaning me against street lamps and fence posts for deeper and deeper kisses, I knew he felt the same.