Free Fame by Tilly Bagshawe

talker. Dorian respected her.
    ‘Chris Pine?’ he asked hopefully.
    ‘If you wanted a solid second-tier-er, you shouldn’t have blown the budget on Hudson,’ said Milla.
    ‘That was money well spent,’ said Dorian firmly. ‘Viorel Hudson is Heathcliff. I couldn’t have done the film without him.’
    ‘You wouldn’t have had to,’ said Milla. ‘We’d have got him for half what you paid. Next time, let me do the negotiating.’
    Dorian rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘Let’s see the rest of the list.’
    Years ago he used to find the early days of pre-production some of the most exciting, satisfying parts of his job, feeling his vision grow into reality beneath his hands, like a potter at the wheel. The screenwriter Thom Taylor once said that in Hollywood, ‘The deal is the sex; the movie is the cigarette.’ Dorian wouldn’t necessarily go that far, but it was true that the deals, plural – pulling together everything from funding to distribution to merchandising – was what made a movie real. Every waitress in town had an idea for a film, a dream that had brought them to this most brutal of towns. Being a producer as well as a director, you got to make your dreams come true.
    This time, however, the excitement had been replaced by unadulterated anxiety. How the hell was Dorian – was anyone – supposed to be creative with so much financial pressure? He knew Milla Haines was right. He had overpaid for Viorel. What Milla didn’t know was that only two million of Hudson’s salary was being paid out of the official production budget. The other three million Dorian would have to find out of his own pocket. After the disastrous Sixteen Nights , he needed to blow the box-office roof off with Wuthering Heights. If he didn’t, he’d be ruined. It was that simple. He’d lose Chrissie. He’d lose the Schloss.
    He tried not to think of how happy that would make Harry Greene. Twisted, delusional bastard. But it wasn’t going to happen. He’d been burned on Sixteen Nights , the movie Greene had helped bury, but with Wuthering Heights , Dorian had a new strategy.
    Step one was to shroud the production in secrecy, to generate as much buzz and curiosity as possible. He was shooting the whole thing on location, far away from the Hollywood gossip machine. (Assuming they ever found a damn location. So far the expensive scouting firm he’d hired to find them somewhere in England had come up with sweet FA.) All the sets would be strictly closed. Everyone connected with the movie – cast, crew, even the accountancy staff – had been made to sign watertight confidentiality clauses and any actor or crew member who said so much as ‘good morning’ to a member of the press would be summarily fired.
    Step two was to wait until all the creative work was done and shooting was almost wrapped, and then go looking for studio investment and a shit-hot distribution deal. By then, if the work was good, and it would be good, excitement about the film should be at its peak.
    We’ll be fine , Dorian told himself. But his nerves persisted.
    Parking his hired Prius out front (he’d had to sell the Bentley last year, a small contribution to the Schloss’s first winter heating bill), he staggered through the front door to the welcoming sound of a beeping burglar alarm. Dropping his bags he punched in the code to turn it off and almost went flying on the stack of unopened mail spilling all over the entryway floor like an oil slick.
    ‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered, reaching for the light switch. Nothing happened. The bulb must have blown. A musty smell of dust and stale air assaulted his nostrils. No one had been here for almost a month and it showed. Dorian realized sadly that the tile-hung, Spanish-style estate no longer felt like home. He wondered if anywhere would ever feel like home again, then chided himself for being so maudlin. He was dog-tired, that was all. He needed to get into a hot shower, call Chrissie and collapse into