Italy.
Chapter Eight
"Am I speaking with Mitch Masterson?"
"Yeah," Mitch drawled, not bothering to conceal the fact that, contrary to his doctor's instructions concerning his increasing weight, he was chewing on a jelly doughnut as he spoke. It was his second jelly doughnut, as well. And he had just had lunch into the bargain.
"I have Arlington Shorthouse on the line for you," the female voice said.
Her words electrified Mitch. His hand jerked in shock, and the coffee he was about to swig to wash down the last of his second doughnut now landed on the front of his shirt. His eyes watered, and he wanted to scream as the scalding liquid made contact with his nipples.
There were many reasons why NBS Studios, of which Arlington was head, could be calling him. At least fifty reasons: Mitch had upward of fifty clients after all, and they were all actors. But it was the fact that Arlington himself was calling that rang alarm bells.
Arlington, even though he was a well-known workaholic and famously hands-on, only called agents directly for two reasons. One was because he wanted to launch a career. The other was because he wanted to end one. Mitch, for whom thoughts of Belle Murphy were never far away, had a sudden, sickening, guilty feeling that had nothing to do with jelly doughnuts.
"Good morning, Mr. Shorthouse," he said meekly, as if his own good behaviour could somehow mitigate for his client and earn her a reprieve. And yet it wasn't a surprise that the end had come.
Since being dumped by Christian Harlow, Belle had hit the ground running—literally, and more than once after oblivionseeking, champagne-fuelled benders in nightclubs that had been mercilessly covered by the press.
Day after day, Mitch had opened the tabloids to find, to his despair, lurid photographs of his former star client struggling, blind drunk, in and out of limos in wisps of dresses with a glaring absence of underwear. All of which would have been unlikely to impress the only person, apart from the state attorney, who mattered. This was the teetotalling and puritanical head of her studio, who felt his stars should be paragons of American virtue at all times. Arlington Shorthouse, the man who was ringing now. Doubtless to knock Belle's career on the head.
Arlington's next words, however, knocked Mitch as flat as Mitch could be knocked, given that he was sitting up at his desk. "We're making the Galaxia movie," the studio head announced in the quiet, ominous voice that could, Mitch imagined, freeze vodka solid. "We start shooting in the summer."
Mitch blinked. That was sensational news. Of course, many studios had tried and failed with space sagas since George Lucas had brought out Star Wars . But NBS's track record meant it had a very good chance. It was a prospect almost as dazzling as the sunshine.
It was also a relief. The news was clearly connected to one of his actors, and Belle, for all her troubles, was the best-known actor on his books. Arlington could hardly be ringing about anyone else. Perhaps he wasn't about to fire her, after all.
"You've got someone I want to offer one of the two main roles to," Arlington said.
A main role? Holy crap. In the darkness below his striped shirt, beneath his flabby upper arms, Mitch felt a nuclear glow of moisture. Sweat gathered on his forehead. Belle's career was saved, and his own was too. She'd be back at the top, the biggest movie actress of the day, probably the best paid too, which was the bit that interested Mitch. And would interest the Associated Artists CEO, when it came to doling out the promotions.
And not before time. Mitch had been passed over not once but many times too often recently, and there were other unpleasant reminders of the extent to which his status had slipped within the company. Associated's thrusting, younger agents, who felt they were too important to handle
Chapter Eight
"Am I speaking with Mitch Masterson?"
"Yeah," Mitch drawled, not bothering to conceal the fact that, contrary to his doctor's instructions concerning his increasing weight, he was chewing on a jelly doughnut as he spoke. It was his second jelly doughnut, as well. And he had just had lunch into the bargain.
"I have Arlington Shorthouse on the line for you," the female voice said.
Her words electrified Mitch. His hand jerked in shock, and the coffee he was about to swig to wash down the last of his second doughnut now landed on the front of his shirt. His eyes watered, and he wanted to scream as the scalding liquid made contact with his nipples.
There were many reasons why NBS Studios, of which Arlington was head, could be calling him. At least fifty reasons: Mitch had upward of fifty clients after all, and they were all actors. But it was the fact that Arlington himself was calling that rang alarm bells.
Arlington, even though he was a well-known workaholic and famously hands-on, only called agents directly for two reasons. One was because he wanted to launch a career. The other was because he wanted to end one. Mitch, for whom thoughts of Belle Murphy were never far away, had a sudden, sickening, guilty feeling that had nothing to do with jelly doughnuts.
"Good morning, Mr. Shorthouse," he said meekly, as if his own good behaviour could somehow mitigate for his client and earn her a reprieve. And yet it wasn't a surprise that the end had come.
Since being dumped by Christian Harlow, Belle had hit the ground running—literally, and more than once after oblivionseeking, champagne-fuelled benders in nightclubs that had been mercilessly covered by the press.
Day after day, Mitch had opened the tabloids to find, to his despair, lurid photographs of his former star client struggling, blind drunk, in and out of limos in wisps of dresses with a glaring absence of underwear. All of which would have been unlikely to impress the only person, apart from the state attorney, who mattered. This was the teetotalling and puritanical head of her studio, who felt his stars should be paragons of American virtue at all times. Arlington Shorthouse, the man who was ringing now. Doubtless to knock Belle's career on the head.
Arlington's next words, however, knocked Mitch as flat as Mitch could be knocked, given that he was sitting up at his desk. "We're making the Galaxia movie," the studio head announced in the quiet, ominous voice that could, Mitch imagined, freeze vodka solid. "We start shooting in the summer."
Mitch blinked. That was sensational news. Of course, many studios had tried and failed with space sagas since George Lucas had brought out Star Wars . But NBS's track record meant it had a very good chance. It was a prospect almost as dazzling as the sunshine.
It was also a relief. The news was clearly connected to one of his actors, and Belle, for all her troubles, was the best-known actor on his books. Arlington could hardly be ringing about anyone else. Perhaps he wasn't about to fire her, after all.
"You've got someone I want to offer one of the two main roles to," Arlington said.
A main role? Holy crap. In the darkness below his striped shirt, beneath his flabby upper arms, Mitch felt a nuclear glow of moisture. Sweat gathered on his forehead. Belle's career was saved, and his own was too. She'd be back at the top, the biggest movie actress of the day, probably the best paid too, which was the bit that interested Mitch. And would interest the Associated Artists CEO, when it came to doling out the promotions.
And not before time. Mitch had been passed over not once but many times too often recently, and there were other unpleasant reminders of the extent to which his status had slipped within the company. Associated's thrusting, younger agents, who felt they were too important to handle
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