How to be Famous Read online

  They left for the party in high spirits. The company lunch was supposed to be about team building but was essentially an authorized piss-up at CMG’s expense. Lynsey didn’t care so much that she wasn’t going, she could think of plenty of people she would rather get pissed with. She made a mental note to see her real friends more often, even if they didn’t live in London.

  A hush descended over the office. The usual dramas and tantrums were noticeable in their absence. Lynsey looked over at another junior assistant across the corridor. There was a moment of understanding and a smile. If only every day could be like this.

  ‘Jim Taylor’s office,’ Lynsey answered automatically.

  ‘Bob Rosenburg for Jim.’

  Lynsey winced. That figured.

  2

  When Melanie Chaplin decided to sign for this picture she had imagined a tropical paradise, but as she sat in her trailer and looked at the torrential rain outside she was reminded of the London that she’d left behind. She found herself wondering if she had locked the back door properly and remembered to tell the milkman she was going away. Three weeks on location in the Indonesian jungle sounded like a plus point, a pro on the list of pros and cons she always made for every decision, but the weather was as miserable as sin. Her daydreams of lying in a hammock between takes evaporated with a hiss like the first raindrop on sun-scorched asphalt.

  A gust of wind blew open the ineffectual plastic window and as Melanie crossed the trailer to fasten it closed she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair, styled that morning, had relaxed out of sleek waves into a frizzy mess, shrinking off her shoulders and getting in her eyes. An insect bite on her face had forced its way through make-up and stood out proudly. Some movie star. She heard someone curse in a broad Australian accent. There were human sounds all around her and apart from the oppressive heat she could be on location anywhere in the world. She had been cocooned in this eight-by-ten trailer for two hours with only her thoughts for company.

  This was it. This was her break. A proper role in a proper movie. Not just any movie, but a Bob Rosenburg movie. Directed by Davey Black. And to think, she had only had to wait twelve years since leaving drama school. The break made her nervous. Melanie liked to think that she was a very calm, centred person but really she was frequently adrift. She gave the impression to outsiders that she was incredibly together while in actual fact the strings of her life were always taut with tension and if one string broke then the whole cat’s cradle would fall apart. She tried to think of something other than the weight of expectation upon her.

  She had been playing the lead role in a new play at the Royal Court when the stage manager told her that Davey Black was at the stage door asking if he might have a word. Davey was the hot young man of the moment. The music promos he directed dominated MTV. His first short film was nominated for an Academy Award. Strong narrative flair combined with visual audacity had become his signature style and, according to the trades and the dinner-party conversation, Davey Black was the man to watch.

  Melanie had heard that Davey was in town casting his debut feature, meeting with the usual suspects and fending off the overenthusiastic agents and the fawning producers who all wanted to work with him. There was a rumour at the intermission that Davey was in the audience and the cast speculated on which one of them had caught his eye. When Davey asked for Melanie she was surprised and excited.

  She glanced in the mirror, glad she had worn one of the few designer outfits she owned just in case he was a label man. She tied an abundance of hair firmly back from her face and wiped the last of the stage makeup from her skin, leaving her face bare to breathe. She looked in the mirror again; her green-flecked eyes danced with anticipation and cleansing her face had given her usually pale cheeks a natural flush. She brushed her teeth twice and tried not to panic.

  Davey Black looked older than she expected, though his silver thatch of prematurely grey hair was mainly responsible. He could have been a veteran surfer taking time out from the waves. He looked her straight in the eyes as he rose to greet her, not easy for many men when Melanie wore heels. When he smiled it went all the way to his eyes. Melanie liked him immediately just from the way he walked, the loping stride of a man too confident and too relaxed to hurry.

  Davey took her to a small Italian restaurant on Draycott Street and over a bottle of cheap red wine and spectacular pasta he asked her to consider testing for his first film. Melanie almost laughed out loud. Here she was, a small-time London actress doing voice-overs to pay the mortgage being asked to consider, to consider, testing for potentially the most eagerly awaited film of the year. Melanie didn’t know what she was supposed to say. Without meaning to sound offhand she told him that she would think about it, unaware that her cool detachment only made Davey want her more.

  Davey Black’s film was to be set in a remote region of the jungle and Melanie’s part would be a resourceful journalist captured in a kidnap scam with twelve western tourists and a concealed camera. It was to be shot on a combination of DV and film in a gritty, uncompromising style. Davey was determined to keep his debut low-key and cheap, saving the big budgets he had been offered until he had experimented with his style. The script crackled with tension. Melanie had tested first thing the following morning with little preparation but a hunger in her belly for this role of a lifetime. The desperation worked for the scene that she was reading and within twenty-four hours she was offered the part.

  At first she had panicked. It was too much. She was a working actress but not a star. Things were finally starting to settle down in her life. She had her own home and boyfriend and she would have to leave both. What if the house burnt down and the boyfriend buggered off? She would have to give up the play at the Royal Court, she would be letting people down. It was like getting an unexpected promotion. What if she couldn’t do it and gave a really bad performance? What if the film was terrible? The carefully planned path of her life could fork off in some irretrievably bad direction. If life was good perhaps she would be better off not taking any risks. She had only two days to decide.

  Luckily Melanie had people around her who could see beyond her insecurity and remind her that this was the opportunity of a lifetime and she was only making excuses because she was scared.

  The Royal Court had put up a battle, waving her contract in her face, accusing Melanie of selling out to the much hated Hollywood. Melanie had been waiting ten years to sell out to the highest bidder and she’d go for free to a director like Davey Black. The film company bought out her Royal Court contract for a healthy sum, grateful as ever for the depth of talent in theatre providing them with another star to launch. The theatre withdrew their empty threat to sue and thought about recasting.

  The rain seemed to be relenting and Melanie ventured outside. She needed human contact before she started worrying that she’d been forgotten. If she didn’t show her face frequently maybe they would think she was stuck-up. Maybe they would write her out of the movie. Maybe they’d leave her for ever in a trailer in the jungle where she would starve to death and never work again.

  She passed some of the crew busy sheltering equipment from the rain and frantically testing the light meter in case there was any chance that they could start shooting in these poor conditions. Everything seemed a bit tense but perhaps that was just her.

  A converted bus served as the location dining room. A few people were eating and a lively game of cards was in progress down by the back seat. Davey was huddled over a script in the corner with Ella, the costume designer, and their two assistants were hovering nearby with note books. Melanie was happy that the majority of people smiled when she came in. Before she had a chance to decide where to sit she heard the roar of a helicopter approaching very fast.

  Who could be stupid enough to fly in this weather? The look of horror she saw pass briefly across Davey’s face made her realize that the big boss was popping by in his usual extravagant style to check out his latest investment.


  Bob Rosenburg. A brash American with a year-round tan who liked to call himself a new kind of independent producer. He mistakenly thought he had the personal touch. After seven successful years at a major Hollywood studio a mid-life crisis had prompted him to take his sound business acumen, his enviable eye for a hit, his extensive Rolodex and set up on his own. His previous employers had badmouthed Rosenburg all over town so that the price was low, then they signed him to a five-year first-look contract.

  Bob considered himself to be the champion of the auteur, the filmmaker’s friend, though deep inside he must have realized that he couldn’t get past his reputation for stifling deals and ruthless creative control. Too bad. He knew he was supposed to be a nurturing kind of guy, but the bad stuff always made him feel so good.

  Bob had scheduled this little stopover en route to the Fox studios in Melbourne, Australia. He knew that Davey had figured shooting this far away from civilization would guarantee him peace, but he hadn’t counted on how far Bob Rosenburg was willing to go when ten million dollars was on the line, not to mention his reputation.

  The noise from the helicopter was deafening and the pilot struggled to land.

  Davey Black willed the helicopter to crash; he could do without kissing ass today. He sheltered his eyes from the rain as he watched the helicopter pilot bring the bird down and the whirling blades sent the rain into a frenzy.

  Bob emerged dressed for the beach in chinos and a polo shirt; his PA had assured him that Indonesia was lovely at this time of year. Dumb bitch. He picked his way through the puddles, ever mindful of his Prada trainers, over to the bus, checked his phoney smile was in place and walked through the door with his arms held wide.

  Every conversation stopped dead and Bob’s loud and insincere greetings ricocheted off the walls in the enclosed space.

  Melanie watched Bob embrace Davey in an awkward hug that turned into a handshake as Ella appeared at her side. Melanie had liked Ella from day one; she had a wicked sense of humour and a gossipy streak that stopped just the right side of cruel.

  ‘Bob Rosenburg,’ said Ella. ‘Thirty-seven, single, straight, talented, asshole. I’ve done four pictures with him and I bet you a thousand ruppiah he doesn’t remember my name.’

  Bob picked up a copy of the script and leafed through. The usually laid-back Davey jumped to attention and stood ramrod straight, bristling with tension. Bob Rosenburg exuded power in the way that other men exude sex appeal. He was a strange-looking man with a weak chin and prominent eyebrows; it would take a mother to love him.

  ‘I love this script. D’ya get that, Davey? I. Love. This. Script. You know what? I don’t think I’ve said that about any script before. So let’s not fuck it up. Come on, meeting, let’s go.’ Bob clicked his fingers twice sharply.

  Davey was furious. This was his movie and this prick showed up and clicked his goddamn fingers? Bob was executive producing, not producing or line producing. One of the big reasons Davey had been prepared to work with him. He had planned to spend today meeting with his heads of department and fine-tuning the details, keeping it casual and informal with a few drinks. Now he knew he would have to sit in a stuffy trailer without cigarettes and listen to what this prick said. He wasn’t changing one word of his script, but he would smile and make all the right noises. Davey knew how to play the game.

  ‘Staying long, Bob?’ He attempted a friendly slap on the shoulder.

  ‘Long enough to put you straight on a few things then I’m out of here. No way am I spending the night in the frigging jungle.’

  Davey relaxed. A few hours he could handle. He would agree with everything Bob said and then wave him off and continue to do it his way.

  ‘Let’s go somewhere private. You have an office?’

  Davey had a tiny trailer just like everyone else. He couldn’t miss the look of indignation on Bob’s face when he pulled out a folding stool for him to sit on.

  ‘Goddamn jungle!’ Bob scratched repeatedly. He had come here to fix the film, and whereas he had once intended to do that as gently and painlessly as possible, his journey had been long and tiring, he was in a shitty mood and now his only priority was to get the hell out of this sweaty, insect-ridden, third-world set-up and back on his helicopter to five-star luxury. Davey wasn’t going to like this. Too bad. Bob had an image of an air-conditioned hotel room spurring him on.

  ‘Davey, the English girl has got to go.’

  ‘What? Melanie? No way.’ Davey was confused; nobody had mentioned a problem with any of the casting. He knew that Melanie Chaplin would be a controversial choice, but he’d put together a package of the best of her work and her most outstanding theatre reviews. He gave the whole thing a spin, suggesting that a serious actress like Melanie would give the film depth and widen their more discerning audience. Bob had signed off on the decision.

  ‘Look, the studio are up in arms about some nobody stage actress taking the best part in this movie. The best part in any movie for a woman her age right now. You have my word that we put her on the next plane out of here and Gwyneth or Julia will be on the next plane in.’

  ‘Non-negotiable, Bob. It took me six months to find her and I have final say on casting. Besides, she’s got a contract.’

  ‘But she hasn’t signed.’

  Davey felt the blood rushing to his head. He had to stay calm. He was prepared to be nice to Bob on his token set visit but the part of Catherine was crucial, absolutely crucial. If he had wanted a pale-skinned gamine American Princess, they would all have been clawing to get the part. He wanted a teal woman, a strong passionate woman and when he saw Melanie command the stage in London, her lucid eyes flashing with anger and hurt, he’d been captivated.

  ‘Of course she hasn’t signed, I only just hired her. I’d be surprised if your business affairs guys even got the paperwork to London.’

  ‘Look, Davey,’ Bob feigned compassion and concern, ‘I know you’re fond of her, who wouldn’t be? She’s a fine-looking woman, but I’m telling you we won’t make this picture with her. You had no right to cast her.’

  ‘I had every right, check my contract. It’s my script.’

  ‘I think you’ll find it’s our script since we paid you for it. The purchase price was credited to your account yesterday. You will fire her, and if you won’t, well, then I’ll hate to do it, but we’ll fire you.’

  Davey clenched his fists in his lap. Rule number one, never punch your exec producer however much you want to.

  ‘Davey, we have to work together on this,’ said Bob. He knew he could interpret the contract his way and snake out of another deal. As far as Bob Rosenburg was concerned contracts were barely worth the paper they were written on. He had yet to come across one that he could not break.

  This script had leaked all over Hollywood in the last few days and all the major agents were calling him, offering the services of their top names, some real box-office guarantees. Bob had been forced to admit that he had underestimated this production and he wished that he had paid closer attention to the screenplay during development, but the budget was so low he had delegated that responsibility. Bob had read it properly for the first time in months on the plane here and recognized why his telephone was ringing off the hook. He had already bumped the proposed release date to awards season and he wasn’t about to let some bit-part, unknown actress get between him and a Best Film nomination. Fuck low budget, he’d break the bank for the right girl.

  ‘I’ll do all the dirty work. I’ll tell her it’s a technicality and pay her off. With a pile safe in the bank she won’t give a shit. What’s her name?’

  ‘Melanie Chaplin.’ Davey concentrated on his breathing in an attempt to control his temper, his fists were clenched beneath the table, but Bob pulled out a copy of his director’s contract, the pertinent clauses already highlighted. Even with his rudimentary knowledge of the legalities, Davey knew his hands were tied.

  Davey and Bob had been holed up for almost an hour. Melanie looked over as they emer
ged and Davey looked furious. Oh God, there was a problem. She should never have taken this film, she’d been down to the final two for a guest part in Casualty; independent films were notorious for hitting the financial wall, they always had problems, and that never happened at the BBC. Melanie watched as Bob Rosenburg strode over towards the trailers. Davey avoided her eyes. Bob was coming in her direction.

  With a sinking heart Melanie realized that the problem was her.

  ‘Melanie, I can only apologize, but you know how these things are.’

  Bob even had the audacity to smile.

  ‘We have an unsigned contract here and without your signature we can’t get insured, without insurance we can’t shoot the movie. Do you think we all want to be sat here spending forty thousand dollars an hour doing nothing? If you were a Screen Actors Guild member it would be easy, but you’re not. You’re British. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but we’re letting you go.’

  Melanie sat quietly and listened to all this, slowly taking in what this sunburnt producer was telling her. Her big chance was being snatched away from her because of a technicality? And this sweating, scratching, ugly little thing was calling her sweetheart? Bob had seemed so enigmatically powerful from a distance, but up close he disgusted her.

  ‘You’ll have to speak to my agent.’ She tried to sound firm and in control even though her head was swimming. This was it. She’d get fired off this film and pick up a bad reputation. Nobody would want to work with her. ‘There’s probably a reasonable explanation, or at least a satisfactory compromise.’

  ‘Too late, sweetheart.’

  There he was with that condescending sweetheart shit again.

  ‘I need to get this picture moving. Today,’ he said. ‘You’ll be paid, don’t you worry about that.’