Chapter 4

 

Dylan

 

“Dylan,” says a masculine voice that is most definitely not the blonde girl from last night. Either it’s someone else, or I’ve made a big mistake.

I open my eyes and see that I’m alone in bed, but over in the corner of my room, standing by the door, is a tall, wide man in a uniform.

“Who the fuck are you?” I say, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes as I get out of bed and realize that I’m stark naked.

“I’m your driver,” he replies, with a monotone that shows he’s about as unconcerned with my nakedness as I am. “And you have a meeting, sir.”

I look around the room in mock-surprise. “Well I don’t see a car in my room, so why the fuck are you in here?”

“They told me that you’d probably still be in bed, and that I should do whatever it takes to bring you.”

I laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. “Bastards. Did they tell you I’d have a fucking hangover and be buck-ass naked as well?”

His brow furrows. “Actually…yes.”

I search his detached eyes for a hint of humor, and when I can’t find it, realize that they probably did.

“Fair enough. Let me shower at least.”

Twenty minutes later I’m sitting in the back seat of the tinted-window Mercedes and flipping through the script that was left there for me.

Larry wasn’t lying. It’s good. It’s really good. An action-packed sci-fi thriller in which a man on an outlying colony planet goes out of his mind searching for his missing brother, while trying to fight the feelings he’s developing for his brother’s wife. It’s a glory of self-destruction and psychological pain. No wonder they chose me.

I toss the script aside and turn to look out of the window, feelings swelling inside of me like a long-dormant volcano.

Eventually, the car smoothly stops and seconds later the brick wall otherwise known as my driver opens the door.

“We’re here now, Mr. Marlowe.”

I grab the script and step out. We’re outside a high rise office building that looks like it’s made entirely of gleaming black granite and glass.

I make my way through the entrance where another uniformed man opens the door for me, and then into the elevator, where another uniform presses a button for me. “Welcome back to first-class,” I mumble to myself.

The elevator opens and I step out into a corridor.

“Dylan!” calls Larry, as he jogs over towards me. As smart and as influential as Larry is, he dresses like a clown. Tight pants, red suspenders over a loose-fitting shirt, and horn-rimmed glasses hanging from a chain around his neck. You’d think he was an agent for a thirties barbershop tribute act – scratch that, you’d think he was in one.

“You’re late. Really late,” he says, putting an arm around my shoulders and pulling me along the corridor. “But it’s ok, because I knew you would be, and I’ve been making excuses. It was short notice after all—”

“Why are you here again? You told me I was ‘on my own,’ remember?”

Larry nods and sighs. “Truth is, after we got off the phone I was up all night worrying about this. ‘Is he even going to show up?’ ‘Will he make a scene?’ I slept for about ten minutes and had a dream that you tried to hit someone and thought, ‘Fuck it, I’m going.’”

“Well I’d say I appreciate it, but I’m not sure I like the implication. It was good of you to cover for me, though.” The truth is, I obviously needed the covering. But I won’t let him say ‘I told you so.’

“I never do this, Dylan,” he says, reaching for the handle of a door. “Agents in meetings like this make people think it’s all about money, which is never good. But this movie needs to happen, for your sake.”

Larry opens the door and I step past him into a large meeting room in the corner of the building, glass windows covering two of the four large walls and offering a panoramic view of green hills and traffic-clogged freeways lined with palm trees. Sitting around the gigantic table are four people. Two men and two women. They stand up as I enter, each offering their hands. I put on a boy scout smile and do the presidential thing.

“Michael Colback. I’m assistant to the head of the financial department that’s working on this.”

“Dylan Marlowe. Nice to meet you.”

“Veronica Brujo. I’m a producer.” She’s all white teeth and full lips. I like.

“Very nice to meet you.”

“Jason Murray. I’m an executive producer.”

“How are you?”

“And I’m Hannah Wiseman. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Marlowe.” She’s older, but sleek as a shark in a dark suit and severe bun.

“Call me Dylan. Only my maid calls me Mr. Marlowe – even though I tell her not to.”

They laugh. Easy crowd. I settle down, feeling the familiar mix of anticipation that comes from a new project, and abject boredom at having to go through these kinds of meetings in the first place.

“Where’s Mr. West?” I ask.

Jason looks at Hannah nervously before answering. “He should have just landed in LA. He might be running a little late.”

“Well I guess that makes me look a lot better,” I grin, and the suits opposite me exchange nervous glances.

“Have you seen the script yet?” Veronica asks. She’s about as tidy a woman as you can get. Black hair cut in a bob that’s so precise you could measure atoms with it, and a suit so prim and tight it’s like she tailored her body to fit it rather than the other way around.

“I have seen the script,” I say, after gulping some water straight from the bottle, “and I have to say that Veronica is a really beautiful name. One of my favorites, in fact.”

Larry jabs a sharp elbow into my side.

“Sorry,” I say, when I see the frown lines on his forehead, “yeah, I read the script. It’s good. I like it. Strong arc for the lead, solid supporting roles, a mystery to unravel. It’s great.”

“Do you have any questions about it? Any reservations about the project?” Michael asks.

I purse my lips and look up in an exaggerated gesture of thought.

“I think…I think it’s better for the movie if we don’t stick to the script too rigidly in places. Or at least, not with my character.”

The four suits look at each other like they’re figuring out who farted for a full five seconds. Larry leans over towards me and whispers: “What the hell are you doing, Dylan?”

I lean back. “Being honest.”

“Um…” Jason says, looking at his colleagues for support. “That’s more of a discussion to be had with Christopher. I’m not sure I follow what you mean exactly, though.”

“Well, what’s the movie about?” I ask, looking from face to face, winking when my eyes settle on Veronica’s. “It’s about a man stumbling onto a conspiracy that no one will acknowledge, slowly losing his mind; losing his grip on reality. How can you script that? Sure, I can read the lines, shout a bit, make it look unpredictable, but then again, so could any half-baked actor on the street out there.”

I lean in, narrowing my eyes with concentration.

“You want the movie to work, you’ve got to make his arc believable, make his emotions pull people in. Make his madness involving, spontaneous, nerve-wracking. You want to make people feel on edge when they’re seeing him, like they’re not quite sure what’s going on. Give them just enough to make them wonder, and when they think they’ve figured him out, turn their ideas upside down again. Basically, you can’t script that kind of thing. It’s organic…rhythmic.”

I smile at Veronica when I say the last word, and she blinks a little, quickly looking beside her. She’s a slow burner, alright, but they’re usually the ones who burn the longest.

“I think I see what you mean,” Michael says, looking around him again for agreement. Jason and Veronica nod a little.

“It seems,” Hannah says, slowly, “that you have rather an affinity for the role. Though there are doubts, I can understand why Christopher was so keen to have you onboard, and the idea is certainly the kind of risk that could prove rather fruitful for everyone involved.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, after a beat, “what’s the risk? It’s a movie. You plan it. We shoot it. Post production does their thing. We release it, promote it, and then you guys rake in the cash. Job done. With Mr. West onboard, it’s a safe investment for everyone involved.”

When they look at each other this time, it’s less like they’re looking for support, and more like they’re looking for who is going to dive out of the window first. Little hard-bodied Veronica sighs and decides to go first. She turns to me and I smile at her, but she’s immune – or at least, very good at pretending she is.

“You have a reputation, Dylan, for certain improprieties, that I’m sure has been exaggerated and blown out of proportion, but of which I think we’re all aware, and that you’ll be the first to admit yourself, has more than a few elements of truth to it.”

I nod, spreading my hands. “You mean I drink and fuck a lot.”

“And fight,” Larry’s a little too quick to add. “In public.”

It’s impossible to suppress a smile. “Well, fighting is implied. You mix alcohol and women enough and you’re bound to get in a scrap or two.”

“Um…yes,” Hannah says, “well, that’s somewhat of a concern for us.”

I look at Larry, and he shrugs, as if reflecting my emotion rather than answering it.

“I’ve always done my thing. And I’ve made good movies before, if that’s what you’re worried about. But believe me, I can handle my business.”

“We just want the focus to be the movie, and not…all the other stuff,” Michael says, waving his hands around like he’s hoping they’ll do the talking for him.

“Dylan,” Hannah says, adopting a gentle tone, “a movie of this scope and ambition is a gigantic undertaking, with an astronomical amount of money involved. You know that, but even by all our standards this is a level above the kind of money we’re accustomed to. While that’s extremely exciting for us, on both a financial and an artistic level, it requires a lot of responsibility and commitment from all of us – but especially you.”

“I get it,” I say, stifling a yawn. “And I’m willing to commit.”

She ignores me and plods on, “Just being late by an hour can cost us hundreds of thousands of dollars. Your public perception could cost us even more in promotion if something negative starts spreading in the gossip columns. But most of all we’re expecting big things from this project, and we want everybody to be at the very top of their game during its production.”

All eyes focus on me when Hannah’s done, waiting for my reaction. The tension in the room is palpable. I grab my bottle of water and swig from it. Then I put it down, and tap my finger on the table.

“Sure,” I say, raising my eyes to meet each of the suits opposite me. “That’s understandable. I mean, I can’t give you guarantees, just my word.”

Hannah looks straight at me this time, while the others do their now-tiresome shuffling sideways-glance thing.

“We know you can’t give us guarantees, Dylan. Which is why we’ve come up with our own…solution.” She smiles, and there’s something nasty in it.

Now she’s got my attention.

“That sounds pretty fucking ominous, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“It’s nothing big,” Jason adds. “It’s just a precaution the studio would like to take so that we can officially sign off on a few things for the movie.”

“Ok…” I say, raising an eyebrow while I wait for the punch.

Michael leans forward, his hands already raised and poised to start moving along with his lips.

“What we’d like to do is have somebody stay with you throughout the day. Think of them as a ‘personal assistant,’ of a kind. Someone who’ll help you stay focused and help you out with anything you might need. You probably have someone like that already.”

“I don’t.”

“Ok, well it’s completely non-intrusive—”

“Is it?” I say drily.

“—and since we’re looking at an intensive, eight-week shoot anyway then you’ll probably be spending most of your time on set—”

“So you’ve basically just hired me a babysitter?”

“No, it’s not a babysitter—”

I cut him off. “Fucking sounds like one to me.”

“It’s just to help you focus,” Hannah puts in.

“Really? Will they tutor me as well? Tie my shoelaces? Watch me sleep?”

Michael looks decidedly uncomfortable, and when he glances down I realize my hand is in a fist, ready to strike the table. He clears his throat. “They’ll just be with you throughout the day,” he says. “Making sure things go smoothly for you.”

Veronica adds, “We just want to be able to take account of all our resources. To know what’s going on.”

“Spy on me too, then? Will the other actors have minders as well?”

“No, this is—”

“No. Of course not. Just Dylan Marlowe – he’s the one you need to keep an eye on. He’s a loose cannon, don’t you know? All he does is drink and fight. Better get somebody to watch him in case he does something crazy like having a little fun. Can’t be having that now, can we? Not in Hollywood. ‘Cause everybody knows Hollywood actors are as clean as the driven snow. They only fuck their wives and then they stare at the wall until somebody needs them to put on a costume and say a few lines.”

I stand up abruptly, shaking off the hand that Larry puts on my arm.

I’ve had to put up with a lot of bullshit in Hollywood. Asshole directors, critics that wouldn’t know a good movie if it bit them on their fat asses, shoots that were more dramatic than the movie’s plot – but having someone watch me day and night is a step too far.

Apart from the fact that it implies I’m an out-of-control alcoholic, whoring, fight-picking lunatic – which in all honesty, there’s a case to be made for – I don’t like having my privacy invaded. When you spend half your life being watched on a screen, or through the telephoto lens of a creepy gossip photographer, you learn to appreciate having some things to yourself pretty fucking quickly. And that’s not something I’ll give up without a fight.

“Dylan, the studio won’t take you on for this movie without this. It’s contractual.”

I raise an eyebrow and smile.

“Do you think I’m standing up to stretch my legs? I’m walking out of here. I couldn’t give a fuck about the movie. Not if it means being humiliated.”

I turn around and step towards the door, but Larry stands up and puts his hands on my shoulders. I brush him off easily.

“Dylan, wait—”

Larry hops behind me as I yank the door open and step outside, and I can hear him plead with the suits.

“Don’t go anywhere, please. Just let me talk to him. Hang on.”

He catches up with me as I search for the stairs, give up, then press the elevator button and wait.

“Dylan, Dylan, Dylan. Please listen to me,” he says, his hands clasped in front of him.

“Larry, you’re a good man. This has nothing to do with you. Just let me go.”

“Dylan, please. Look at me.” I turn my head nonchalantly to face the begging man. “This is the worst decision you will ever make in your life.”

“No, Larry. I already made that one a long time ago.”

“If you get in that elevator your career will be destroyed, Dylan. Destroyed.”

“Larry, why don’t you look at me? Do I look like I give a fuck? What is this concern really about, anyway, your commission?”

For a moment he’s speechless. The elevator doors open with a ding and before I’ve taken a step Larry leaps in front of me, his arms shooting to the sides to block the entrance.

“What are you doing, Larry?”

“My commission? Really, Dylan? Why are you so fucking stubborn!?” Larry screams, without any of his usual decorum.

“Me? Stubborn?!”

“Yes! You’re so pigheaded! You’re so damned bullish! Even when it’s against your own good! This is about what’s best for you and your career.”

“What do you know about what’s best for me? You think making movies is the be-all and end-all? Well it’s not. It’s a job. And right now, I’m walking out on this particular one.”

“No, Dylan. You walk out on this job and you’re walking out on all of them. You won’t have a job after this. You’ll have to suck somebody’s dick to get a cameo on a reality series. You think having a minder is humiliating? Wait until there’s a viral video of you crying on some celebrity rehab show.”

“Let me past, Larry. I don’t have time for this.”

“’Who’s that?’ they’ll say in the comments, ‘he looks like an older, fatter, balder version of the guy who won the Oscar that one time.’ ‘Can you believe he used to bang all the hot chicks?’ ‘I can’t.’”

I shake my head. “Larry, I don’t give a shit about this anymore. I just don’t.”

“What do you think you’re gonna do, then?”

I glare. “I’m planning on stopping at the first bar I can find and having a stiff drink or two. Then, I’m planning to live my life. I’ll fuck a few women, I’ll get in a few fights, and in between, anything could happen, but I won’t have anyone telling me what to do.”

“And when the money runs out? And they come for your house? What then? You’ll lose everything.”

“So be it,” I say, performing an almighty shrug. “At least I’ll be free.”

Larry looks at me with more disappointment than I’ve ever had anyone look at me with in my life. He drops his arms from the elevator sides and hangs his head.

“Forget about the money, then, Dylan. Forget the fame, forget your career, forget what people are gonna think of you. But don’t walk out on this film. Do it for the right reasons: For the love of greatness. For the chance to make something amazing. Shit. I look at you now sometimes and I can’t believe how much you’ve changed. Remember how you wanted me to be your agent so badly you’d do anything?”

He taps my chest playfully, and I can’t help but smirk, remembering how green I was.

“Yeah.”

“You were all over me! Everywhere I turned you’d be there pulling some scam or another to get my attention. I couldn’t go to a restaurant without having you somehow delivering my food. Couldn’t look out of my window without seeing you there causing a scene ‘cause you were reciting movie lines on the corner.”

I smile at the memory in spite of my anger. “That was easy. Your secretary was the hardest part.”

“Yeah. When you made Sarah think you loved her I knew you had to be a good actor.”

“How is she?”

He shrugs. “Still eating men for breakfast, and hell-bent on getting revenge against all of mankind to make up for that broken heart you gave her.”

“Too bad about that,” I say.

Larry looks thoughtful. “Honestly? I think she enjoys it. Maybe a bit too much.”

We look at each other and laugh. The kind of laugh I haven’t had for a long time. The kind of laugh you only make with an old friend, over old memories.

“What happened, Dylan?” Larry asks, his smile turning bittersweet. “You used to love movies. Acting wasn’t enough. You wanted to write, to direct, to do it all. I’d get calls from people saying ‘hey, what’s Dylan Marlowe doing in the editing bay, his job is done,’ or ‘Dylan’s been messing around with the sound department again.’ But you were good at it. What was that movie? With the director from New York…”

“On a Wire.”

“Yeah, On a Wire. I remember that guy telling me over and over again that it was turkey. Then you show up, rewrite half the script, put in an amazing performance, and that thing wins a prize at Cannes.”

I shrug. “It just needed a little more oomph.”

“Which you provided. Because you’re a great actor. Because you belong in this industry. Because you get it, it’s your calling. Even though you keep trying to ignore it.”

“It was. A while ago now.”

Larry puts a hand on my shoulder and leans in towards me.

“I’m saying this as your friend now, not as your agent. I can see that you’re lost. I can see that you’re in pain. I can see that something – fuck knows what – is troubling you. I don’t know what it is that’s missing from your life; only you can figure that out. But I can tell you this: Doing this movie, giving yourself a purpose, will be good for you.”

I shake my head and start pulling away.

“I know the ‘minder’ thing is bullshit. I’d be annoyed too. But is there a movie where there isn’t some kind of shitty thing to put up with? You’ve made movies with worse things than some uptight assistant following you around. And this is not just any movie. You can’t tell me you’re not into this. It’s fucking gold, and I know you’re chomping at the bit.”

I sigh. “Maybe.”

“So give it a chance. Let the production guys have their stupid little ‘thing’ and focus on the movie. After a few days I’m sure they’ll figure out how stupid it all is and forget all about the ‘minder.’”

I rub my face and look at Larry’s puppy dog eyes.

“I guess we could at least hear them out,” I concede.

I let Larry guide me back into the room, and try not to notice the wide-eyed stares I get from every person at the table. They watch me like hawks as I take my seat and lean back, blank-faced.

“He’ll do it,” Larry says.

“He’s agreed to having someone watch him?” Jason says, quiet and nervous.

“Yes,” I say, a little grit in my voice. “Now where do I sign?”

“Excellent!” Michael says, with so much excitement he almost punches the air.

Hannah takes out her phone and presses a few buttons before looking up at me.

“I cannot express how glad I am that you’ve agreed to this. I’ve just sent word for your assistant to be sent over, she’s just downstairs. She’ll be over shortly.”

She? This just got a lot more interesting. I try to keep the gleam out of my eye.

“So what exactly are the terms for this? What can my client do or not do?” Larry asks.

“Do you want the official version, or the breakdown?” Jason says.

“The breakdown,” I say.

“Well, our assistant will make sure you’re completely punctual at all times. That means making sure you’re on-set at all the hours you need to be, as well as staying with you for meals and breaks and even during the evening if need be to make sure you’re not, uh, partying or drinking to the point that you’ll be late to work, or losing focus on the project.”

“What happens if I do?” I ask. “Is she a kung-fu expert? Licensed weapon holder? Can I expect to be hit with the pepper spray if I get a little disobedient?”

The suits look at each other for a few moments, and I realize just how much I’m beginning to hate it.

“No, of course not. But she’ll submit a report to us, and we can evaluate it,” Jason says. “And then do whatever it takes to remedy the situation.”

“Well I hope I pass the evaluation,” I mumble. “So when does my personal guard begin?”

“Well,” Michael says, checking with his colleagues, “right now, seeing as we’re about to sign the contract.”

We sit in silence for a few moments, everybody gawping at each other like we’re in the world’s fanciest waiting room. Just as I’m reconsidering walking out and grabbing a drink there’s a gentle knock at the door. Veronica leaps out of her chair and strides over to it on heels a little too sexy for the suit she’s wearing. I raise a smile when I see them, and take back my wish to never see any of these people again.

When Veronica opens the door, however, my smile disappears, and the sharp focus I had on her ass is reset upon the slender figure who steps through the doorway.

It’s her. The girl from last night. The girl who said it ‘wasn’t the kind of thing she did,’ right before she did it better than most women. The girl who left her panties on my roof. The girl I was considering hiring a private detective to find so I could have a repeat performance.

“Mr. Marlowe. Meet Gemma Clarke.”