New Olympus Trilogy: Teenage Goddess Teenage Star Hell on Earth (13 page)

2

L.A. greeted me with smog and noise. I’d reserved my usual suite in the Hotel Mirabelle and was picked up by one of their drivers in a pearlescent grey limousine.

“Could I have an autograph?” I’d already given out quite a few on the plane. The price of fame. I smiled, signed. Myra hadn’t liked the constant interruptions of autograph-seekers, had she? At the time I hadn’t focused on her attitude, caught up in the heat of my passion, but must have registered it anyway.

Check-in was quick and painless. They knew me from the last time. A soundless elevator took me up to the top security floors. 

Half an hour later, as I emerged from the shower and towelled off my over-long hair, I wasn’t surprised to see Jerry and Alice waiting for me. I put on a robe and joined them at the group of huge black leather sofas arranged round a triple-size coffee table.

Grabbing a peach from the fruit basket, as well as a napkin, I waved at Jerry.

“What gives?”

“I’ve got excellent news. They’ve offered the lead in
Hurricane Riders
II. You’ll be featured above your co- stars in larger font. You get 52 million, twice as much as for the first one.” His tone was jubilant, his eyes gleamed with triumph.

“Hmm. Well done.” I took a bite of the ripe peach. Money didn’t mean as much to me as to him, but it was a status symbol here in Hollywood. The higher figure would mean better tables at the best restaurants, yet more requests for autographs, and – if the two films were successful – even higher offers for future contracts.

“And that’s not all. The music label wants to extend your exclusive contract for three more years, at much better conditions, if you’ll do a record with that new song soon.”

“When does the current contract expire?”

“In six weeks.”

“I’m not going to take the extension. I want to produce my next record independently, with songs I’ve written myself. Set up a recording session six weeks from now, I’ll email you the names of the band I want to use for background.”

As I’d expected, Jerry disagreed. Strongly. The risk of harming my brand, my reputation, was too high. The marketing of an independently produced record would be much harder. I didn’t know what I was doing, and should listen to my agent, who’d been in the profession from before I was born. It was madness. He looked to Alice for support, but she remained silent. I’d always suspected that she was the smarter of the two.

I let him rant for a while, but eventually cut him off. “Take it or leave it. I’ll expect you and Alice to come up with a marketing plan. I’m willing to do up to five live concerts to promote the new record. Just get on with it.”

It was only the second time I’d directly defied Jerry on a major business decision, and it felt good. The first time had been when I flatly refused to go to Atlanta without Myra, which seemed a bit irrational in hindsight.

Jerry’s attitude was not surprising, really; I’d only been a child of twelve when he’d signed on as my agent, but those times were over. He’d better get used to it.

He stared at me, not in a friendly way.

“Okay. But you’re willing to do the film?”

“When does the shooting start?”

“In March, somewhere in the Mediterranean. They’re still scouting for the perfect location. You’ll have to be gone for at least eight weeks.”

There was nothing else on the schedule that couldn’t be moved. My trip to Cannes in mid-May would also fit in.

“Tell them we accept. I want the script as early as possible.”

The big decisions over, I turned to Alice, who’d been watching our confrontation with interest. I hadn’t forgiven her for her callousness at Myra’s disappearance.

“Your hair-“, she began.

“It’s all right. The stylist is due in an hour.” I’d taken care of that detail on the ride from the airport. It was only a question of time till the paparazzi hunted me down. I did not intend to give them unnecessary fodder. 

“Fine. I’m glad to see that you’re over your infatuation.”

“Please get one thing clear, Alice, Jerry – I don’t want to hear a word about Myra and my feelings for her.
Ever.
That’s non-negotiable.”

“I see I spoke too soon. Have it your way.” Alice briefly pursed her lips, shrugged her thin shoulders. “The important thing is to use the momentum of your current fame. I’ve drawn up a series of suggestions,” she put a sheaf of papers before me. “A few well-selected public appearances over the next few days and weeks will consolidate your superstar status. We have to strike the iron while it’s hot.”

“Remember that I’m still of school age,” I said. “I’ve been neglecting my education, but I need to graduate at some point.”

“Are you going to apply to a university?” Alice asked. “It hardly makes sense, when instead you could earn so much more with a couple of extra movies and concerts.”

“It’s not about money at this point. I haven’t decided, but I do need to finish high school. So I don’t have weeks to spare for your planned appearances.”

“They will help sell your independent record.”

I paused. Shrewd as she was, Alice had realised I cared much more for my own independent project than any of my other gigs.

“I suppose I could devote a few days to public relations.” I looked her proposals over, scratched most of them out. “Here – I’ll do the ones I left on the list. Send me a clean copy and details about each appearance by email.”

She nodded, tucked the revised schedule into her purple crocodile leather bag. “And that reminds me – before too long you need a new girlfriend.”

I jerked.
“What?”

“It doesn’t have to be a real relationship. Given the way you spaced out over Myra, it’s better if it’s not. But the tabloids have to report that you’re going out and having a good time with another rising star. Several suitable girls are eager to take on the role. You’ll find my short list with photos and CVs the papers I just gave you.”

“I told you not to speak of Myra.” I was getting angry now. “I’m absolutely not going out with anyone else.”

“The loyal and heartbroken act doesn’t suit you, not at your age,” Alice dispassionately noted.

Jerry snorted. “Romeo was just about his age.” Both of them grinned.

“That will be all for now, you can come back tomorrow,” I told both of them. “Don’t push me too far.”

When they realised I was serious they left, somewhat reluctantly. I could already foresee future conflicts. School would have been delightfully uncomplicated in comparison.

The stylist arrived on time and immediately got to work on my locks. I allowed myself to relax, listening to his skilful snipping. What would Myra have thought of the confrontation just past? As often in the past weeks I imagined her at my side, wanted to turn to her with some remark or joke, only to find her gone.

After the stylist had left I worked on my songs, trying out chords on the guitar as I sang the lyrics. It was not going too well; I could think of melodies easily enough, but I could not be sure they were original. Besides, they did not seem unique, and they needed to stand out if my songs were to become hits.

“Need some help?” An amused voice said right beside me. I started in surprise. The hotel had excellent security and yet there was a guy standing right in the middle of my suite, completely unannounced.

The stranger was in his early thirties, average height, blond and beautiful – if he had any acting ability, I could see him in starring roles easily enough. This man had presence in spades. His twinkling blue eyes looked me over as I did the same to him.

“Who are you? How did you get in here?” I blurted.

His smile made me think of sunrises and trumpet solos. “You can call me P.A. Hell told me that you need some help with songs you are composing.”

Wait, when had I talked to Hell about this – oh, of course.

“
You’re
the guy who did the music to
Not the End
?”

“Yes. Rather, I did the song, and you added some different lyrics. I have quite a bit of experience with songs and music.”

“In that case, any help you could give me would be most welcome. I’ve been struggling …..let me show you.”

I handed him the words I’d written, and he read them over, without comment, though a faint smile crinkled the corner of his eyes.

The next couple of hours were among the most extraordinary of my life. I’d always worked with pros, but P.A. beat them all.

He did not talk about public preferences or money at all, we focused on the inherent poetry of the lines – which he helped me improve out of recognition – and on the tunes they already carried in them, so that I merely needed to listen carefully and transcribe what came to me. Or that’s what P.A. claimed, and it certainly worked for him. I learned more in that one session than I would have in a half year of composition lessons. We ended up with two wonderful songs, and I had ideas for the rest, as well as a promising new way of going about it. I was elated. Or maybe it was just P.A.’s company; he was extraordinary, and that had nothing to do with his dazzling looks. In his company you could not feel sad or depressed; the very air around him seemed to fizz with creative ideas and melodies.

Coming up for air at last, I offered him coffee, tea – to my surprise he asked for a glass of wine instead.

“If you know Hell, do you also know Myra?” We were waiting for room service to bring up a special vintage. I’d ordered the best they had, going by price. P.A. certainly deserved it.

“Since she was a baby. I love that girl.”

“So do
I,” I whispered, but I think he caught it, as he gave me a sympathetic glance.

“I’m planning to record and produce these songs myself, including
Not the End
,” I told P.A. “What about your contribution – do you have an agent who could settle the details with mine?”

P.A. shook his head, smiling. “Never saw the need for an agent. They’re more trouble than they’re worth, usually.”

“I hear you.” I was thinking back to my recent scene with Jerry Murdock.”

“Sometimes they even try to embezzle the artist’s earnings. They need independent supervision,” P.A. added.

Was he trying to tell me something? But how would P.A. know, even if – I put the thought aside for later.

“So how do you make a living from your music if you don’t have an agent? I can tell you’re a seasoned professional. Do you live on royalties from older compositions?”

“I don’t worry about any of that.” P.A.’s lack of concern led me to suspect that he came from money. But then so did I; and I still preferred to get fair compensation for my work.

“Have you done any acting or modelling? With your spectacular looks, it should be easy to get an in.”

“I modelled some statues a while ago, but nothing recently.” P.A. grinned. “Acting is not my forte.”

“I’m going to thank Hell for sending you to me. This has been incredibly helpful, just when I was getting depressed about all the problems around me. Will I see you again?”

“If you like.” P.A. seemed easygoing when he wasn’t working.

“Do you live here in L.A.? Where are you staying?”

“I live quite far away, but can use a friend’s house while I’m here. Don’t worry about it.”

“So, if you’re still around, would you like to go to the party I’m scheduled to attend in a couple of hours?”

3

The party was in full swing when we arrived. The home of Peter Buligh, the producer of
Hurricane Riders
, was more or less like other Hollywood mansions – huge pool, dashes of vividly coloured plants, a manicured lawn, and two bars – one permanent, the other especially set up for tonight’s party. People were dressed in a selection of formal to casual, though the former predominated, especially among the women, who mostly wore short cocktail dresses.

Long before we could get to the bars, waiters offered us trays of assorted drinks. P.A. took a glass of wine, I grabbed a coke.

A cluster of people was forming around us, as usual, and I noticed that it contained many women eying P.A. with strong interest. Even for Hollywood, he was spectacularly handsome and magnetic.

“Jason, darling, do introduce me to your friend,” our hostess, Mrs.
Buligh, was cooing to me, her eyes glued on P.A’s. face the whole time.

“This is P.A.
, he helps me with my song writing. He’s a composer,” I said, realising that I didn’t even know his name. “I was sure you wouldn’t mind my bringing him along.”

“I’m glad you did.” I got almost uncomfortable at the glance she sent him – covetous or even lascivious would be the proper description, I guess. P.A. looked amused rather than shocked. With his looks, he was no doubt used to such invitations. 

“Hello, Jason,” Jennifer Crawley whispered from behind me. I turned and admired the elaborate hair-on-top thing she’d done with her auburn mane, emphasising her long graceful neck. It only seemed natural to place an air kiss on the cheek, the way I’d been taught by my mother. We had worked together in two movies now.

“Jennifer - great to see you. What are you doing these days?”

“A couple of guest appearances in a TV series. I had a chance for a permanent role, but decided not to tie myself down so long. I’m hoping to get my part back for
Hurricane Riders
2.”

“So do
I,” I said. “It would be nice to work together again, we made a good team.”

A crowd of other actors, agents and a couple of journalists were listening avidly.

“From what I hear, you’ve got the lead in the bag.”

“If we come to an agreement it will be announced soon,” I said, conscious of all the listeners. It was bad policy to announce your roles before the contracts were signed. “How about lunch sometime next week?” I asked Jennifer. I would not mind hearing more about the Hollywood scuttlebutt while I was here, and she was an excellent source.

We agreed on Wednesday and Gregoire’s, a French place I’d been to once before, and liked. “Don’t you need to go back to school?” Jennifer asked.

I shrugged. “I’m working on that. After what happened with my girlfriend, I’m not sure I want to go back to my school in Colorado. It’s also not very convenient for my work.”

“A lot of people would be happy if you settle in L.A. for good,” Mrs. Buligh interjected at this point. Somehow, P.A. had detached himself from her and was visible over in the direction of the bar.

“Will you take a house? I could help you find one,” another guest offered. I looked at the young man questioningly. He handed me his business card. It said “
Jost Grundley, Real Estate, Hollywood”, plus a telephone and email address.

“I suppose I can’t stay in a hotel forever.” More decisions – but I liked the idea of my own house. How many guys got to have that, at sixteen?

I felt someone grab my right hand and turned – ah. Mrs. Prescott. That figured. She touched everyone, all the time. I drew back a half-step, even as she leaned forward to kiss me on the cheek. I had known her since I was six years old, and so could hardly tell her what I thought of her constant touching.

“Jason, I’m happy to see you looking so good, after misplacing that girl in the mountains! What really happened?” she trumpeted with her customary tactlessness.

“I wish I knew, Mrs. Prescott. The police are still baffled, I understand.”

“
Evadne, not Mrs. Prescott - you’re all grown up now yourself, aren’t you?” She looked me up and down as though wondering for what grown-up activities I might be up already. Suppressing a shiver, I smiled.

“Anyway, it’s always nice to run into one of mother’s friends. Shall I give her your regards?”

“By all means….” She couldn’t have cared less about mother, and I knew it. All this insincerity was starting to get on my nerves. But it had always been like this - was I suddenly getting more sensitive? Not a convenient time, when I’d just decided to settle here for good.

Talking to several other acquaintances, and a few new people I hadn’t met before, I gradually crossed the lawn towards the area near the pool. I could see P.A. leaning against a low wall, and flirting with a well-known female star in her forties. I was too far away to hear their conversation, but they seemed to be having a great time. I sighed. P.A. was so much better at enjoying himself. Looking at all these people made me feel lonely. I did not want them around me; I wanted Myra. Taking out my cell phone and pretending to take an important call, I brought up her picture and at low volume played the original version “Not the End,” the one where Myra and Hell were singing in an unknown language. What language was it, I wondered? I had to ask P.A., who’d written the song, after all.

Putting the phone away again, I became conscious of a very strong, exotic perfume in the air. I sniffed. Naked, brown arms snaked around me from my back, and a husky voice asked, “Guess who, Jason.”

The scent was new, but the arms and the emerald bracelet – set with about two hundred tiny but perfect stones – gave her away. “Hello, Sylvia. What is that perfume you’re using? It’s quite overpowering.”

With a laugh, she slowly released my torso and came to stand before me. Sylvia Roscoe was an up-and-coming British actress. We’d met at a couple of parties like this, and she’d had a small part in my last movie before
Hurricane Riders
, then gone on to co-star in another feature, a mystery that had been well received.

“You’re more handsome each time I see you,” Sylvia said. “Must be great to be still growing, and how come you don’t have to worry about pimples and your Adam’s apple, like other boys your age?”

“Just luck, I guess.” It was true that my skin had always been clear. “You look pretty in that dress.” It was hardly there, giving the world a clear view of her stunning figure and well-rounded breasts. She was about twenty-two, and going steady with a director, if the rumours were true.

“Jason.” There was something different about her voice. She rubbed her hand over my biceps and stared into my eyes. “I’m sorry about what happened to you – the police, all that scandal. Let me console you.” Before I could take evasive action, her lips were on mine and her tongue was seeking entrance into my mouth. I heard a couple of cameras click.

I stepped back, removed her hands from my arms.

“Sorry, Sylvia. I appreciate your offer, but it’s too soon.” More cameras, even a flash or two. Sylvia was angry at my rejection, but she had only herself to blame at trying to kiss me in such a public place.

I got another drink – still non-alcoholic – and went to see how P.A. was doing. He was alone for the moment, sipping wine yet again as his eyes wandered over the crowd.

“Ready to leave, P.A.? I find a little of such parties is more than enough.” I spoke quietly, so that nobody would report my words back to the hostess, or worse, the media.

“Yes, let’s depart.” P.A. put his glass down on the plinth of a marble statue, some kind of water-god holding an urn.