The A-List Collection. Victoria Fox
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was happening fast, and not at all in the way Chloe had expected. But she was determined to remain unflustered and do whatever it was she needed to. She remembered her father’s advice, the glisten in his eye when she’d told him she was leaving.
‘Be good, darling,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll always be here for you.’
It was what she had needed to hear–she didn’t want her dad to feel that she was abandoning him. Her fears were irrational, of course, but they were there all the same.
Brock pulled out some paperwork and removed the cap from a pen with a proficient flourish. Chloe was amazed at the transformation from party-boy-slash-hazardous-motorist to über–professional-but, then, he was sitting next to Fiona. She was impressed. She was a little less impressed by Sam Lucas’s insistence on calling her Sophie–her character’s name–throughout the meeting. Fiona and Brock corrected him several times, but after that they just let him get on with it.
There was a silence. Chloe’s mobile sprang to life and she fumbled in her bag, hot-faced, to switch it off.
Sam sat back and a smile played across his lips. He watched his muse for a long time before passing her several sheets of paper.
‘Read this,’ he instructed. ‘Dazzle me.’
It was her scene. Sam–or some unfortunate lackey–had scrawled messy red circles round her lines, which actually made them harder to spot, not easier. But Chloe had gone through them enough times in her bedroom back at home. She took a deep breath. She could do this.
Chloe read tentatively at first, but as the character took shape and she warmed to the role, a quiet, controlled passion entered her voice and breathed life into the words. There wasn’t much material there, but from what there was she squeezed every last drop. She loved the feeling of assuming a character, a different girl in a foreign time and a distant country.
When she finished nobody spoke. Then Sam Lucas said simply, ‘It’s yours.’
She looked up at the director and in his eyes was barely concealed desire. The scene had rendered her bare and now Sam Lucas’s gaze was prowling across her young body like a wolf’s. She felt a shudder race up her spine.
‘We’ve got ourselves a deal, then,’ Fiona said. It wasn’t a question.
Still Sam didn’t take his eyes off Chloe. ‘Damn right you’ve got yourself a deal,’ he said, rubbing his hands on his trousers. ‘She’s the one.’
Round the corner on Santa Monica, The Hides were deep in session at the Blue Water recording studios. Nate had arrived in LA the previous week armed with enough material for five albums and, with the mutual focus that a new project brought, everything was coming together. The band was in sync and it felt good.
When Nate got a thumbs-up from the control room he called a band meeting and they all went outside for a cigarette.
‘I’ve got a suggestion,’ he said, flicking the top off a can of Pepsi.
Spencer, their lead guitarist, offered fags around. ‘Yeah? Let’s hear it.’
‘I want to change the name of the band.’
‘What?’ Chris spluttered, a Marlboro hanging limply from his mouth. ‘Why?’
‘Let me finish,’ Nate told his drummer. God, he was burning up in this leather jacket–but he had to keep it on, at least outside, in case the paps took any interest. ‘It’s a slight change, nothing really. You’ll barely notice.’
‘What is it?’ Spencer turned to Paul. Their bassist’s blank expression indicated he was way out of it. ‘Do you know?’
Paul wasn’t vocal at the best of times and shrugged disinterestedly. He was stoned. ‘Whatever. I don’t give a shit, man.’
Nate was exasperated. ‘You’re meant to give a shit,’ he said crossly. He was the only one who really cared about this band. Hence the name change.
‘Nate Reid and The Hides,’ he declared. Before anyone could butt in he went on, ‘I’ve been giving it a lot of thought and—’
‘What’s that?’ Felix Bentley, their producer, opened the studio door just in time to catch Nate’s suggestion. He wore a concerned expression.
Nate felt embarrassed–he’d wanted to sound the guys out first before getting Felix involved. ‘Nothing,’ he mumbled, hoping they’d just forget it.
But Spencer wasn’t letting go. ‘No way, man, no way. Every one of us is on a level–we said that from the start.’
‘And it’s not like …’ Chris shook his head. ‘I mean, you’re not, like … established, man. Isn’t that what people do when they’re … I dunno …’ He searched for the word before finishing, ‘Established?’
Nate made a face. ‘I am established.’
‘Yeah,’ Chris muttered, ‘as Chloe’s other half—’
‘What?’ Nate roared, a pellet of spit firing from his mouth.
‘Come on, guys, stick with it.’ Felix lit up. ‘We’re on the right track. No name changes.’
Felix Bentley was one of the most dynamic and innovative music producers in town. He was London-born and had moved to LA in his twenties. Always fond of going back to the big smoke, he had spotted The Hides at a private gig in Camden last year and had immediately got into talks with the guys’ record label. Felix was determined that the band would succeed in the US–their music was world-class, even if their lead singer was a bit of an acquired taste.
‘That’s kind of what I think,’ said Spencer.
‘Sure,’ said Nate, as casually as he could, ‘it was just an idea.’
‘You guys sounded good in there,’ said Felix, ‘seriously good. As far as I’m concerned we can expect big things from this album, with a little bit of work. So let’s focus, not get distracted.’
‘And now let’s get a beer,’ said Nate, deciding to call it a day. The others agreed, and after Felix had wrapped things up in the studio they caught a cab down to Venice.
On the way Nate’s thoughts turned to Chloe, who’d have landed this morning. How dare Chris imply she was more famous than him? It was a fucking outrage. And it sure as shit wasn’t why he’d got together with her in the first place.
In truth he was pretty pissed off at his girlfriend coming to LA, had been looking forward to a bit of freedom. Recently it had become increasingly difficult–the press in London were way too on it. It was weird to be in a place where the names Nate Reid and Chloe French didn’t mean anything, at least not yet. It was liberating. He’d heard Californian chicks were wild and, damn it, he wanted to claim his share.
He supposed he ought to call her. After a few rings the line went dead. Ah, well, at least he’d made the effort.
Felix recommended a bar called Pellys that did the best draught lager he’d found. They got the drinks in and settled into a booth out back. After a while the conversation turned to Hollywood.
‘Actresses are the bollocks,’ supplied Paul, slumped in a corner. ‘Plus American chicks dig the accent, right?’
‘Apparently,’ said Chris, yawning. ‘Nate knows all about that.’
Nate gave his drummer the finger. Chris was referring to the disastrous night he had spent last year in the company of Jessica Bernstein, that snotty heiress from Vegas. She’d been a little raver in the sack but that could work both ways, as Nate had painfully learned when afterwards he hadn’t been able to walk properly for a week.
‘Oh, yeah?’ Felix turned to Nate.